


Clear Blue Sky || Reddie

by weavability



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Baking, Best Friends, Best Friends to Lovers, Bonfires, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, Coming Out, Dialogue Heavy, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Fear, Fights, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gay, Graphic Description, Grocery Shopping, Homophobia, I really don’t know what i’m doing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inner Dialogue, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mommy Issues, No Plot/Plotless, Party, Post-Canon, Reddie, Shopping, Skating, Slow Burn, Sonia Kaspbrak’s A+ parenting, Stenbrough, Substance Abuse, Underage Drinking, Whump, Young Love, idiots to lovers, pls tell me if they’re out of character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:21:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 92,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25193824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weavability/pseuds/weavability
Summary: Richie Tozier has been in love with his best friend since he was ten years old. As the years progress, he feels no different. He likes to pretend he doesn't care, but Richie would do anything for him. Alternatively, Eddie Kaspbrak is one oblivious boy— but he isn't oblivious enough to ignore the fuzzy feelings in his chest when he bumps hands with Richie, and he may be interested in looking into it a little more.—Side notes: Will include angst, fluff, pining, and heavy swearing. Aiming for 4k/5k words a chapter, but it may extend to 6k at times. Plot has not been fully mapped out. Updates every Saturday! This is my first IT fanfiction, so apologies if the characters are a little off (or a lot off) since I’ve never done this before.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough & Stanley Uris, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 46
Kudos: 108





	1. Author’s Note

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings and such in Chapter One. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some important tidbits, including trigger warnings.

Hey all, welcome to my first Reddie fic! A few important notes (that can be skipped, but do note that trigger warnings are included below) that I have to share before we start:  
  


 **— Grammar/Punctuation.** This story will be in third person. Quality/length may vary— I aim for about four to six thousand words per chapter. I am writing on my phone, so there may be errors.

 **— Trigger Warnings.** I don't have everything all mapped out yet, which means I don't have a solid list of trigger warnings yet, either. As I continue, I will add to this list:

_• Anxiety/panic attacks (implied & in detail)_

_• Mentions of manipulative/abusive parents (implied & in detail)_

_• Gore (in detail)_

_• Substance abuse (implied & in detail, mostly alcohol & tobacco)_

_• Very strong language (including offensive slurs) and vulgar jokes_

More to be added.

 **— Other.** I appreciate each and every one of you for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, or whatever you decide to do. This will be Reddie centric, but there may be other background ships to spice it up. Obviously, there will be spoilers for the movie(s.) If you have suggestions for plot, I am open to taking them. This fic will also be up on Wattpad later under the same title.

 **— Socials.** You can find me on Instagram @rinsreddie or on Wattpad @eddiebaby. 

Thank you!


	2. Eddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Losers head to the Aladdin to catch a movie, but Eddie loses a very important piece of paper.

Richie was snatching the balled up piece of paper out of Eddie’s hands before he could get a word in. He did, however, manage to speak up after.

"Hey, quit it! That’s mine!"

Richie glanced to the shorter boy, smirking and elbowing him out of the way when he tried to reach for the piece of paper that Richie was currently _un_ crumpling. "What’s wrong, Eddie? This a list of life statistics for kids with small dicks?" 

"Shut up, asshole. Gimme back my—" He didn't want to say what it was, but his lips turned down at the corners when Richie pushed him back by his chest and tried to to scan the surface. Eddie hoped to god he couldn't see it, but he knew it was a misplaced wish. Richie and his huge glasses saw everything.

"Your what? Is it an obituary for your mom? Because the crabs finally—" This time, Eddie was saved by Beverly. The vivacious curly-haired girl snatched the piece of paper from between Richie’s two hands. "Hey, you bitch! I was reading that!" the latter exclaimed.

"Can it, Trashmouth. It’s probably none of your business." The redhead gave Richie a cheeky smile, tearing the paper right down the middle, and Eddie couldn't even be mad about it. In fact, he felt a wave of relief crash down onto his body. Had she even stopped to look at the page herself? Eddie sure hoped not. He’d be in a world of trouble if anyone knew what it had held. He needed to be smarter about where he wrote those lines— a leftover, empty page in the back of the notebook he had used for school was already proving to have been an absolutely terrible idea.

"Would you swear on your mom's life?" Richie fired back to Bev.

"My mom's dead, genius."

"Can’t be. I fucked her just last night—"

"B-Beep beep, Richie," Eddie stammered, finally over his initial shock and horror. He snatched the pieces of paper back from Bev’s pale, freckled hands, crumpling them back up and stuffing them into his pocket.

"Aww, c'mon, ass sniffer. I wanted to see what it said," Richie complained. "I bet it was a love poem," he snorted, "or _maybe_ —" He was interrupted by a loud crash and a thump from behind him. Beverly and Eddie jumped almost in unison, Bev’s shoulders coming up slightly and Eddie reaching out to grab Richie’s sleeve (even though the other seemed nonchalant about the whole thing). Just to make sure he was still there.

It had been a year since the freaky clown incident— if one could sum it up to a few words as simple as those— but the paranoia had never left. Each and every kid in the Losers Club had been left with trauma they hoped to forget but knew they never would. After a year of school spent with her aunt, Beverly had moved back to Derry, convinced her aunt to upend everything and move back to Maine at the beginning of the summer before freshman year. The now (mostly; Eddie was left behind because of his later birthday) fourteen-year-old Losers didn't care how she'd done it; they were just glad she was back, and they had made sure she had known it by voicing their gratitude to both her and her insanely cool aunt. The group could still make more memories as a whole, the same type as last summer— with a little more maturity (clearly from everyone _but_ Richie).

Luckily, on this way too hot Wednesday afternoon, there was no child-eating clown chasing after them. It was just Ben, having fallen from his bike. Eddie watched the short boy glance down to see what he'd run over, and he himself caught sight of a rut in the street from his spot next to Richie. Clearly trying to regain some sense of his dignity, Ben scrambled to his feet, cheeks flushing under Bev’s gaze. _Can Bev not tell how much Ben is into her?_ Eddie was thinking. Maybe she was ignoring it on purpose.

Realizing that there was no danger, Eddie reluctantly allowed his fingers to unfurl from the material of Richie’s disgustingly bright Hawaiian shirt. In turn, Richie shot Eddie a snide look, smoothing out his sleeve. "What, you scared?" he questioned, as if he wasn't at all bothered. As if he'd been perfectly fine the whole time. Eddie crossed his arms over his chest, glancing away. _Well, fuck you, too._

If he were to say it out loud, he knew all he'd get in return would be something along the lines of _'I’d rather have your mom.'_

"Yeah, Rich, I _am_ a little scared. ’Cause, you know, I almost got my face eaten by a fucking clown," Eddie hissed under his breath. "Several times." Luckily, he'd kept his tone low enough for everyone else to disregard it.

Richie rolled his eyes, but he knew not to push _too_ much when it came to mentioning the incident. The last time he had, a few months ago, he'd given Eddie an asthma attack so bad that he’d had to use his inhaler three times. So he didn't do it much anymore. Richie gave a loose shrug, evidently knowing Eddie wouldn't hesitate to yell _'beep beep, Richie'_ right in his face if he tried anything. Instead of attempting to win, Richie gave in— a rare occurrence— and settled for fishing around in his pocket to produce a cigarette. While he was searching his other pocket for a lighter, Eddie snatched it without thinking, throwing it down in the sewer across the street.

"Hey! Why’d you give my cig to Pennywise? C’mon, man," he grumbled. Richie reached to his shorts pocket for another, but Eddie grabbed his wrist.

"Dude, those are _so_ bad for you. Like, you don't even know. You could die. Lung cancer!" _Don’t die, please._ If his best friend was going to die from anything, Eddie had assumed it would've been being eaten by a monster clown. Apparently not, if he kept up the smoking.

"That’s the point, twink."

"I’m not g— what!?"

"Relax, ya pussy. I’m only joking." Richie flashed a grin, but reached again for his pocket. "Now lemme go. I gotta cancer stick to light."

"No way, Rich. Don’t you know that—"

"I don't want your lecture, _Mr. Kaspbrak."_

"—thirty percent of teen smokers die early because they keep on smoking?" Eddie’s fingers tightened around Richie’s wrist. "And there are so many health concerns that are related to—"

Richie, on the contrary, tried to yank free— and he was headed for the path to success, considering Eddie’s grip wasn't very strong. "Thirty percent is barely any."

"Are you kidding!? Thirty percent is a fuck ton! Do you know how many teenagers there are in the world? That’s _millions_ of people."

Richie tried to open his mouth to rebuttal again, but Bev smacked him in the arm, effectively shutting the two boys up. Eddie reluctantly let go of Richie, noting how he hadn't changed a bit since last year, when he'd been whacking a killer clown in the face with a bat in Neibolt House. He was pleasantly surprised when Richie didn't reach for his pocket again. _He’ll probably do it out of sight._

Ben trotted over to the group after his fair share of embarrassment, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." Eddie didn't speak, just gave him an upward tilt of his head to let him know it was okay.

"You’re fine, new kid," Bev replied, using her initial nickname for the clumsy boy. Her formerly tense shoulders had since relaxed, and Eddie could see that her eyes held hints of that specific fondness they always did when she regarded Ben. "Where’s everyone else?"

"Dead, probably," Richie cracked before Ben had the opportunity to reply. Nobody laughed. "Aww, guys, c'mon." Upon earning nothing but a sigh from Ben and a dirty look from Eddie, Richie rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine. I’ll go fuck myself."

"Knowing you, it'll probably be someone's mom instead," Mike’s voice piped up from their side. Luckily, his tone was familiar enough for the four kids to pick up on before they had the chance to be frightened by the addition to the group.

"Oh, Mikey. You know me so well." Richie flashed a grin, adjusting his glasses by the side of the frame and standing on his tiptoes to throw an arm around the boy who had just dismounted his bike. "See, guys? Mike gets it."

The taller boy shrugged Richie’s arm off of him with a good-natured grin. "Sure, Rich." Unlike the others, Mike left his bike standing instead of tossing it to the ground. He’d flipped down the kickstand and leaned it against a tree for extra precaution. Eddie wondered why he was always so meticulous with the thing when everyone else just tossed theirs to the ground without a care. It was a nice bike. Maybe it had been expensive? Before he could think too much about it, Mike’s voice brought him back to reality. "Bill and Stan were behind me. they'll be here in a few."

While Bev and Ben conversed about something Eddie didn't really care to listen to— an end of the year school project for eighth grade that they'd just finished, he was pretty sure— and Richie moved to torment Mike instead, Eddie watched from the side. He fiddled with the buckle on his fanny pack. He had tried to ditch the thing, but his mother just wouldn't let him. Every time she found him without it around his waist, she got so mad. Yelled at him and threatened to ground him. Of course, she didn’t really enforce it— but she _had_ tried to ban him from hanging out with the Losers on several occasions. Eddie never listened.

He wanted to get rid of the stupid fanny pack, but the anxiety that came with simply abandoning it in his locker for school some days was enough to put him off from the thought. _They’re just a gazebo— no, placebo._ Whatever that meant— he still hadn't bothered to check. As far as he was concerned, it was a synonym for 'fucking fake.' But he still couldn't bring himself to ditch the meds. And the inhaler. And all the customs his mom had baked into his brain.

"Eds!"

Eddie quickly glanced back down, focusing in his vision where it had gone fuzzy from staring at the cloudless sky. While he’d been busy stuck in his own head, Bill and Stan had arrived— and now Richie was waving a hand in front of his face, calling him by one of his many stupid nicknames, and the rest were staring at him.

"Jesus Christ, Eddie. Thought you got hypnotized or something." Despite the fact that his tone sounded semi-frantic, Richie showed no signs of uneasiness— in fact, he was adjusting his glasses and smirking like nothing was wrong. _As always_. "You _do_ know that the sun and the Deadlights _aren't_ the same thing, right?" His joke earned a collective groan from the group— aside from Eddie, who was glaring up at Richie.

"Listen here, you—"

"Richie, you have _got_ to stop with that," Mike interrupted. Beverly smirked, knocking the curly haired boy upside the head with her knuckles, and Richie jerked forward.

"Ow! Asshole." Richie rubbed the back of his head, curls bouncing as he whipped around to face Mike again. "Come on, Mikey. What happened to our BFF-ship?"

"Sorry that I’m looking out for everyone and not just you," Mike snorted. Eddie felt his lips pinch into a half frown. _That was kind of a low dig._ And that was saying something, considering how they all hung out with _Richie Tozier_ — who made low blows all the time with his jokes. Nobody else seemed put off, though, so Eddie stayed silent on the matter. "Now, are we going or not?" Mike regarded the group with his head tilted up. They had made plans to see a movie at the Aladdin, a good way to get out of the blistering heat and into the air conditioning without all having to cram into one of the Losers' houses.

"Yeah, c'mon. If we don't go soon, there aren't gonna be any more tickets left for anything," Eddie piped up. "Anything good, at least. And I don't want shitty seats, either. We’ve got to have room to pick. Do you know how much higher your chances are of getting sick if you sit by someone who is? What if we get there so late that the only seats left have a sick person? No way, not having it." He managed to put a lid on it before he could start ranting.

His brow furrowed when he caught sight of the way Richie’s eyes glinted with guilt. Eddie opened his mouth to speak— to ask if he was okay, or if he needed to step away, almost anything— but Richie was meeting his eyes and offering a cocky smirk. The one that always made Eddie’s insides do _the thing_. Then Richie flipped him off and turned to blabber something about going to the arcade after, and Eddie found himself rolling his eyes so hard it almost hurt. _Jesus. Still so obsessed with Street Fighter._ Though Eddie did find it kind of... He wouldn't finish his thought. The warm feeling in his chest said it best.

Despite his fond thoughts, Eddie’s gaze hardened, and he instinctively crossed his arms over his stomach. _Fine_. If Richie wanted to be difficult... Well. Two could play at that game. It wasn't going to stop Eddie from trying to figure out what the fuck was going on with the guy. He may have (pretended like he) hated all his bad jokes and sexual innuendos, but he was a little worried about him. Besides, they were basically best friends. Eddie paused at that thought. Did Richie even think of them as best friends? Were they that close? Did he himself want them to be best friends?

 _You’re getting into your own head again._ He took in a breath to set himself straight, hands fidgeting with the zipper of his fanny pack in case he needed to yank out his inhaler. However, his main focus was the boy standing next to him. As Richie’s best friend, it was practically Eddie’s job to make sure he was okay. Lately, he'd been noticing a familiar agitated look crossing Richie’s features more and more often; he planned to figure out what was up, and he knew it was going to be a wild ride, considering it was Richie. Even as concerned about taking risks as he was... Eddie was willing to risk it.

"Come on, señor," Richie taunted in a poor imitation of a Spanish accent, grabbing his hand and pulling him forward. Eddie’s skin tingled. "Vamos a extrañar la pelicula." _'We’re going to miss the movie,'_ Eddie quickly translated. He could catch how Richie’s Spanish was improving. The only thing the Trashmouth couldn't master was the accent. Or was he doing it badly on purpose? Eddie himself had always been good in the subject, but Richie hadn't really been trying until recently, when Stan and Bev had seemed to urge him into trying for good grades. And now the improvement was noticeable. _But everything about him is, isn't it?_

"Yeah, yeah. I’m coming." Eddie tried to keep his cheeks from turning pink, though it wasn't working well. _What is it with the blushing today? Jesus Christ._

"What’s wrong, señor? You walking too fast? Need your _inhalar?"_ Richie cracked a grin, still flaunting his bad Spanish accident, but Eddie yanked back, batting his hand away.

"No, but _you_ need your pacifier," he huffed, surging ahead to walk with the rest of the losers. No matter how much he wanted to walk next to Richie, he couldn't exactly give that _away_. And the farther away he was, the easier it was to hide. Eddie took a place next to Stan and Bill, who seemed highly invested in some talk about the Torah that Eddie didn't really understand. It was good background noise to his own thoughts.

Eddie couldn't help sneaking one last glance over his shoulder at Richie, and with a start, he realized the taller boy was glancing off to the side like a kicked puppy. Eddie averted his eyes, focusing in front of him instead, but his thoughts ran a mile a minute. Why was Richie acting so off today? Was it Eddie’s fault? But he was always this harsh. That was their whole shtick— they were dicks to each other. It was natural. Despite this, Eddie couldn't shake the feeling that he'd played some part in why Richie looked like a baby whose candy had been stolen. The thought echoed in his ears, and his heart hammered to match it. _Oh, man. Is it my fault? Wouldn’t he tell me if it was? Oh God. It is my fault, isn't it? I made him hate me. I upset him and now he's not gonna want to be my best friend anymore. and..._

In between labored breaths that he tried to muffle, Eddie rifled around in the pack hooked to his waist, fingers bumping into his inhaler. He pulled it out, shaking it and yanking the cap off. He shoved the end into his mouth, frantically pressing down on the top and breathing in the fumes. He held his breath for a couple seconds and then slowly let it out, stuffing the blue aspirator back into his small bag. Throughout it all, he counted in the back of his mind to keep himself grounded. He reached twenty-eight before he was interrupted.

"What’s got ya worked up?"

Richie’s voice at his side made him jump. Eddie’s eyes flitted over to scan Richie’s face, and he crossed his arms yet again. He couldn't help but notice the way Richie looked genuinely concerned. "None of your business. Shut up." Why was the only thing ever coming out of his mouth toward Richie _'shut up'_ these days? _Yeesh_. "You wouldn't know worked up from dead asleep, Rich. You’re basically blind," Eddie scoffed.

Richie’s eyes glinted. "You sure?" But upon ensuring Eddie’s safety, he was back to his natural attitude. "Just a living reminder that you don't have to have 20/20 vision to get laid." _What the fuck?_ Those two things weren't related at all, but Eddie could still feel himself biting back a grin. "What do you breathe out of that, anyway? Is it crushed up birth control pills? My God, that's groundbreaking." Richie kept on talking, ignoring the way Eddie swatted lightly at him. "Do you think you could load it with weed?" Richie’s hands were reaching for the pouch. "Lemme see it. I bet I could poke a hole in the canister and—"

"Beep beep already, fuckface.” Eddie shoved Richie’s cold hands away from the bag, but it was the final straw. The grin that showed up on his face was involuntary.

"Aha! You think I’m funny! I did it, guys. I won the infamous Eddie Kaspbrak, the guy with the stick up his ass, over—"

"You fuckin' wish!" Eddie snorted, shoving Richie in the side of the head. He dimly recognized that in the back of his mind he was hoping nobody else was paying attention. That this could be a moment he had with Richie. But it didn't register well, seeing as the rest of Eddie’s mind was wrapped around Richie himself. The aforementioned boy combatted by smacking Eddie in the chest.

"You know it's true! You’re laughing! Look, you're giggling, you little bitch," Richie cackled, and Eddie tried his best to suppress the snickers threatening to break out. "You think I’m fuckin' hilarious. Admit it."

"No fucking way. You’re an obnoxious little— _Hey!"_ Richie had picked him up. _That bitch!_ Eddie pounded his fists against Richie’s shoulder— and then his back, when Richie slung him over that shoulder. He was still breathless and laughing through his words when he yelled, "Put me the fuck down! Guys! Someone help me out here, God!" He knew Richie had grown an inch or so (while he himself had, regrettably, stayed the same height for the past year), but he hadn't expected him to be able to do _this_.

"Nope. Not until you admit it. You laughed at _my_ jokes. I won’t settle for anything less." Richie glanced back at him, still smirking, and Eddie found his heart beating just a little too fast.

And then Beverly was snapping a picture before Eddie could yell at her to stop. That seemed to be a recurring theme today: apparently, lots of people liked to make decisions and do things before Eddie could get a word in himself. She grinned as the clunky Polaroid printed out the picture, winking and putting a finger to her lips as she dropped both the camera and the picture back into the bag slung over one of her shoulders. Eddie decided to humor her, staying silent about the ordeal, but he did wonder why she needed a picture of him thrown over Richie’s shoulder— and why it had to be kept secret from Richie himself.

Just when he had thought he was safe, Eddie felt hands wrap around his ankles, but before he could register that they were friendly, he panicked. All he could imagine behind him was that stupid clown, and his mind conjured images of Pennywise’s jaw unhinging to open _way_ farther than jaws should be able to, and _oh god, the teeth._ Eddie flailed his legs, feeling his panic growing. In a fleeting attempt to ground himself, his hands curled in the stupid Hawaiian shirt in front of his face. "Richie. Richie!" he yelped, a cry for help. At the same time that Richie’s arms tightened around him, he felt his foot come into contact with something; instantaneously, the hands at his ankles were gone.

"Oww, f-fuh-fuck!"

A few seconds later he was being returned to the ground by a very concerned looking Richie. "Eddie? Hey. Hey, Eds, you're okay. You’re alright. Come on, man, it's just stinky old Big Bill. Don’t worry."

Eddie clamped his lips shut, shameful gaze slipping to the floor. _At least I’m not shaking._ He realized with a start that he was still clinging to Richie’s arm, so he pulled his hands away. He didn't lift his eyes, but he knew everyone had stopped and was staring. "Uh... sorry." His face flushed red, and he stepped back from Richie.

"D-damn, Eddie, you k-k-kuh—" Bill got stuck for a moment, still holding a hand over his nose. " _Kicked_ me r-right in the—the face," he finally forced out, eyebrows raised. Thankfully, he didn't seem very pissed. He got it.

"I, um, yeah. Sorry, man," Eddie quickly blurted, apologizing for the second time in less than ten seconds. "You good? You’re not bleeding, are you? Because, you know, if you _are_ , we should probably go to the drugstore, because—"

"I’m fine," Bill chuckled, though he wiped at the space under his nose. Eddie let out the breath he had been holding when Bill’s hand came away with nothing. "What a-about y-y-you?" Bill asked.

"Yeah. I’m okay. Thought I was about to die or something." Eddie glanced to Richie and then away, but nobody said anything else. A comfortable silence fell over the Losers as they picked up their pace again. Eddie was immensely relieved to know that they weren't going to make fun of him for being so scared. They understood. Nobody would laugh— not even Richie, who was uncharacteristically quiet.

Except he had thought too soon. Richie leaned over, cupping a hand around his mouth to whisper into Eddie’s ear: “And you didn't even have to use your weed inhaler."

Eddie burst into a small bout of laughter, hitting Richie’s shoulder. "Shut the fuck up, dude," he snorted, shaking his head. As they entered the Aladdin, a welcome blast of cold air met their faces. While Eddie and Richie jabbed each other in various places with sharp elbows, he realized how comfortable it was to banter with Richie. How _natural_ it was. He didn't have to worry about getting sick, or about anyone (but Richie himself, of course) making fun of him. It could be Richie Tozier, him, and a bunch of really stupid _your mom_ jokes. And Eddie found he could live with that.

He was preoccupied enough, thoroughly caught up in his strangely Richie-centric thoughts, to entirely miss seeing the foot sticking out. It sent Eddie flying, and he scrambled to throw his arms in front of him so they could take the brunt of the fall. When he squeezed his eyes shut and prepared for impact, however, he was met with something different altogether.

"Fuck you, asshole." Richie’s arms were circling Eddie’s waist, lifting him back to his feet. "Go scissor your mom, you bangle-wearing bitch." Eddie could feel Richie’s eyes on him soon after. He looked, and there they were, shining with a familiar mischievous glint. "Jesus, Eds, how did you not see that coming for miles?"

"Listen," Eddie protested, but he couldn't think of much to say when wrapped up in the other's arms. Why had he needed Richie to save him so many times today? Two times wasn't many, but it was more times than he liked to feel helpless in front of his friends for one day. He got enough of the babying from his own mother, and while perfectly content to stay with his shoulder pressed to Richie’s chest, it was embarrassing as all hell. He glanced to the kid who had tripped him. Of course it was stupid Greta from the drugstore. He shot her a glare, wanting to flip her off, come up with a quip, do _something_ — but that was usually Richie’s job, and for good reason, too. Eddie had nothing.

The closeness between them was suffocating, and Richie... didn't really look like he wanted to let go? So Eddie did it himself, worming his way out of Richie’s grip and catching up with the rest of the group. _That was weird._ But he couldn't say he hadn't enjoyed it a little bit more than a guy like him probably should have.

He trotted to the window, joining in on bickering over what to watch and then paying for his ticket. They skipped out on the overpriced movie theater food in favor of all the snacks they'd snuck into the theater in their pockets instead. Eddie watched Richie integrate into the group just like he had. He frowned, slowly gravitating closer until their shoulders bumped. Did he want to sit next to Richie? Yes, maybe. But he wouldn't admit it. Forcing his own shoulders between Richie’s and Stanley's while they were walking said enough on its own. He shot Stan an apologetic look, but Stan just shrugged. He didn't really seem to care that much. _Good_.

This way he could sit next to Richie. In the dark. Sharing the fruit snacks Eddie had stolen from the top of his mother's personal snack cabinet, filled with junk food Eddie wasn't allowed to eat but Sonia could have all she wanted of. The ones he always got into deep shit for taking. But he had to take them! They were, after all, Richie’s favorite, and he was going to share them with the other boy. Even if it _was_ kinda gross that their hands were gonna be in the same bag of fruit snacks. He was going to have to eat fruit snacks touched by Richie Tozier’s nasty hands.

Surprisingly, he didn't mind as much as he thought he would.

Eddie counted the times they brushed hands. Or elbows. Or arms, or shoulders, or knees. By the end of the movie, he came up with seventeen. _Seventeen!_ He tried not to act absolutely thrilled with this revelation. _That_ was a little too gay. He needed to cap it before it started to get weird.

As they filed out of the Aladdin, already groaning at the feeling of the hot sun again, Bev spoke up. “Are you guys busy? ’Cause, you know... we could hang at the Barrens.”

Just like that, the Losers were off, running for their bikes again. Eddie smiled as his small legs pumped him forward. More time with the Losers meant more time with Richie.

He was _definitely_ okay with that.

—

When Eddie finally returned home, he, of course, sat through a long lecture about the fruit snacks and his health, and his mother fussed over the dirt smeared across his cheek that he hadn’t noticed and the way his hair was so sweaty that it was matted to his forehead. Sonia’s berating was getting easier and easier to tune out, but he still offered a couple "sorry, Mommy"s and a plethora of guilty-puppy looks. After a very quiet and _very_ healthy dinner ensued, he was ready to pass out. Normally, he didn't get tired so easily, but they'd run around down at the Barrens, throwing rocks and playing capture the flag, for another two hours after the movies.

Eddie was meticulous with his night routine. He had to be clean to sleep, no matter how tired he was. So, fifteen minutes later, he emerged from a steaming hot shower, hair plastered to his forehead this time with clean water. He changed into soft pajamas, hung his towel up to dry on the rack on the wall by the shower, and picked up the dirty clothes he had left balled up on the floor outside of the bathroom connected to his room. He un-balled them, beginning to fold them, but remembered the paper from earlier that Richie had tried to snatch. He was proud of it, but he still needed to throw it away. Or maybe he could burn it?

Needless to say, when Eddie stuck his hand in the pocket of his shorts for the two halves of paper but wasn't greeted with the sound of crinkling, he was taken aback. His eyebrows shot up, and quickly, he checked the other pocket. Empty. _Oh, no. Oh, fuck. That can't be good._ He threw the clothes into his dirty laundry hamper, scanning the floor again, but it was no use. His bedroom floor was pristine. There was nothing there. Eddie began to pace, retracing his steps on his mind. Where were all the places he had been today? The drugstore, for a medicine refill, which happened in the morning. The corner by the petite little cafe on fifth street (that Eddie loved, but everyone else thought looked like a grandma's house, so he pretended to hate it, too), waiting for everyone to show up. The movies. He distinctly remembered hearing the telltale rustling of paper against paper when he had hip checked the door on the way into the movie theater. So he'd had it back then. But, thinking back to capture the flag... he hadn't heard it at all while he had been running. The paper had been in his right pocket, so Eddie racked his brain. Who had been sitting...

His face drained of all color.

Richie had been sitting on his right.

Richie had the paper.


	3. Richie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie hates blackberries; Richie likes to tease him.

"Come _on_ , Eds, just _try_ one." Richie held the berry up inches from Eddie's face, grinning cheekily from behind it. "You know you want to," he sang, dragging the words out. His goal, most obviously, was to make Eddie laugh. He was always trying to appeal to someone with his humor. He didn't really care if Eddie liked blackberries or not; he was more focused on teasing him about anything and everything.

However, Eddie, sitting a few inches to the side, was having none of it. Richie could tell he was only pretending to be so mad, but it stung a little anyway when Eddie snapped, "Dude, _no_. I'm not eating that shit. And don't call me Eds." Richie rolled his eyes when Eddie smacked his hand away. "Did you even _wash_ them? And they're, like, they're _bitter_. Blech. No."

Richie laughed, shoving him in the shoulder. "You twat." He popped the berry into his mouth, digging around in the pile for another one. It was days like these, sitting by the side of the river with Eddie (and _only_ Eddie), that made Richie truly happy. He could outline the shape of Eddie's soft jaw, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, and the way his hair fell into his face when he moved his head too quickly, and nobody would have a thing to say about him staring, because they weren't here to see it. "Oops," he said, inspecting a blackberry he'd just picked out of the pile he was holding in his shirt, "I think this one has an ant on it." He glanced at Eddie, smiling deviously.

Instantly, Eddie's eyes widened. "No. Don't even think about it. You _know_ I hate bugs, Richie, you— Richie!" Eddie screeched when Richie flung the berry at him. Richie watched, unable to hold back his laughter when Eddie frantically brushed at his shirt to get it off. "Ew! Ew, ew, ew, no."

"Relax!" Richie laughed. "I was kidding. There's nothing on it, you germaphobe." Eddie seemed to realize his overreaction, and Richie grinned when he saw the telltale pink blush on Eddie's cheeks. Eddie smacked at him, and Richie's shoulders came up. He laughed again, leaning away. "Stop! I'm gonna drop my blackberries— Hey, quit it!" Before he could stop him, the shorter boy was taking his glasses.

"Nope." The blob that was Eddie slid them onto his face, and Richie squinted, trying to make sense of the blurry shapes in front of him. In a slightly lowered voice— tailored to sound like a dumbass, Richie was sure— Eddie said, "Hey, guys, I'm Richie Tozier. I'm _suuuuper_ funny because I make really fucking stupid mom jokes. and I take my erectile dysfunction pills _every day_." By this point, Richie was losing it, slapping at the ground and wheezing between laughs. Eddie wasn't even that funny, and yet, something about the fuzzy version of him sitting there and the idiotic voice emitting from it was sending Richie to the verge of tears, he was laughing so hard. Richie couldn't see his expression, but he was sure Eddie was smiling. He could picture it easily enough.

"Oh my god," Eddie exclaimed, "I've got it." He held up a fuzzy hand. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Despite the fact that Richie wasn't sure if he had his thumb up or tucked in, he shook his head, reaching up to slap at the side of Eddie's face with the hand that wasn't holding the end of his own shirt. "That's not how it works, dumbass," he snorted, grabbing his glasses back.

"Sure it's not. Hey, by the way, we should stop sitting here. The sand and shit is so gross. You ever heard of a—" Richie shut him up instantly when he shoved a blackberry between his parted lips. Eddie was immediately trying to spit it out, voicing a handful of disgusted noises, but Richie slapped a hand over his mouth, not caring that a few berries were tumbling out of the makeshift bowl he'd created out of the bottom of his shirt. His hand felt warm against Eddie's lips— but the point wasn't to swoon. _Come on, Mr. Tozier. Focus on the goal here._

"Chew it up. Swallow it. It's goooood." Eddie shook his head in attempts to lose Richie's hand, grabbing at his wrist, but Richie stayed strong, still smirking. "You're just— Oh my _god_ , did you just _lick_ me? And I thought _I_ was the one who liked to lick dirty places." Richie yanked his hand back, glancing at the smear of half-chewed blackberry across his palm, which stained it a deep shade of purple. While Eddie was distracted, spitting the rest of the berry to the side, Richie reached for his pale blue shirt, wiping his hand across the front of it and subsequently staining it with blackberry.

Eddie gasped, backpedaling. " _Richie!_ Oh my god. My shirt!" Eddie glanced down at his clothes, frowning. "I liked this shirt. Come on, Richie! Momma's— Mom's gonna kill me for this. Oh my god. That's so disgusting. _Why_ would you do that? _Richie_ ," Eddie whined. And Richie did feel kind of bad. But he had a better plan than the one that was ' _sit here and let Eddie yell at me for another ten minutes_.'

He let the few remaining blackberries he had picked fall from his shirt as he stood, motioning for Eddie to follow. "Come on, we can fix it." Eddie looked reluctant, but he scrambled to his feet, and Richie smiled with satisfaction. _Good, he's following._ With his clean hand, he grabbed Eddie's hand, a habit he couldn't seem to let go of. He pulled Eddie along with him as he neared the edge of the river.

"Richie?" Eddie asked nervously. "Where are we—"

In one fell swoop, Richie pulled at the fanny pack until the strap came loose and out of the buckle. _Don't want to ruin the stupid inhaler that he doesn't need._ He shoved Eddie forward hard enough to send him sprawling, and sprawl he did— Eddie fell right into the water, gasping when he came back up for air. "Richie!" he squealed. The shrill noise that would bother anyone else was music to Richie's ears. "Oh my god, it's _cold!_ And that's _not_ how you get stains out," Eddie huffed, hurrying out of the freezing water. Richie grinned smugly, tossing the fanny pack back to him. "That achieved absolutely nothing! So now my shirt is dirty _and_ wet—"

"Just like Mrs. K last night," Richie interjected, faking a philosophical voice. "Wow. What a coincidence."

"Beep _beep_ ," Eddie snorted. He shook his head, flinging water everywhere, and Richie flinched back, grinning when Eddie reached to smack at his chest. "You are _so_ annoying."

"Not as annoying as you are, mi amigo," Richie responded easily. It was a simple task to hide the small twinge of guilt when Eddie insulted him back. All he had to do was smile and make another sex joke. "Remember that one time, in the clubhouse, you had the paddle ball and you—"

"I keep telling you, it was Stan's _face_ that broke it, not me!" Eddie complained as he buckled his fanny pack again. "I didn't have a single thing to do with that paddleball breaking. Just like if I poked your arm a bunch of times like this—" Eddie jabbed his finger into Richie's slim bicep over and over, slowly increasing in force— "and it broke? It would _not_ be my fault. It would be yours. Probably because you looked at it with your dumb, stupid, _huge_ eyes and broke it with your mind— _whoa!_ "

Richie had grabbed Eddie's hand to stop him from continuing the poking. Yanking him so he lost balance and fell into Richie was golden. Losing his own balance because of the impact of Eddie and falling backwards was _not_ so golden. Richie hit the ground with a soft _oof_ , Eddie landing on top of him.

After a second or two of staring, in which Richie basked delightfully, Eddie rolled to the side, the tips of his ears gaining a red hue. Richie bit back his disappointment, once again reminding himself that he _could not_ be gay. That was gross. He'd finally faced the fact that maybe he liked Eddie a few months ago. But he couldn't be that way, he just couldn't. So the next time Bowers and company had come after him, Richie had given in and let them beat the shit out of him. Maybe they could beat the gay out of him, too, right?

It hadn't worked. Less than a week later, Richie had carved a big fat _R + E_ in the kissing bridge.

Even though Richie thought he knew there was no way Eddie would be gay, the drawing came to mind, and he was second guessing all over himself. Yes, he'd stolen the pieces of paper out of Eddie's pocket at the movies. Was it underhanded? Yes again. In his defense, it was just meant to be a joke! Eddie _had_ been strangely secretive about it, but Richie had expected it to be leftover homework that he hadn't gotten around to trashing. Or a love poem to some girl who wasn't nearly as cool as him. He'd fully expected to be let down again like he always was. So when he had unfurled the paper and taped the two halves together only to find a carefully articulated sketch of his head, he had been surprised— pleasantly, obviously. And Eddie was a _good_ artist, too. He'd seen drawings made by the boy, but never anything like this. Never anything so realistic, so detailed, down to every last freckle on Richie's cheeks—

"Rich?" Eddie's small voice was interrupting his thoughts. Richie lifted his head. "You 'kay?"

"Did you say 'kay? You're a dork." Richie laughed, tilting his head back slightly so his curls would fall out of his eyes. His shirt was a little wet from where Eddie had laid there, but it wasn't that bad. So while Eddie was complaining about Richie's teasing, Richie quickly devised a plan. "Hey, shut up for a second."

"That's _my_ line, Trashmouth."

"Yeah, yeah. But isn't good old Mrs. K going to be pissed at you for ruining your shirt?"

Eddie was visibly uneasy as he glanced down to the stain. "Well, yeah. I'm not exactly happy with it either, Rich," he huffed. Again, Richie felt a pang of remorse. _Sorry, Eds._

"Okay, so, wear mine."

"What?" Eddie glanced up from where he'd been staring down at his shirt. "What do you mean? No way, it probably carries lice."

"Well, yours is all, y'know. _Wet and dirty._ " He gave the other an exaggerated wink that was promptly met with a roll of Eddie's eyes. "And mine isn't."

"Richie, I don't have a Freese's shirt. Momma's gonna know if I show up in _your_ dinky clothes."

Richie cracked a smirk. "Yeah, but it's better than walking in wearing a wet and dirty one, right?"

"Would you stop with that?" _His laugh is so nice,_ Richie mused as Eddie broke into a soft chuckle again.

"No, I will not. And you have to admit it. I'm right."

"Well..." Eddie tilted his head. "Does it stink?"

"You decide," Richie fired back, lifting his arm to expose his armpit. He cackled, advancing on Eddie with one arm lifted, and Eddie kicked at him, giggling.

"Fine, fine! I'll just hope for the best." Eddie crossed his arms when Richie finally stopped coming after him. Richie offered a rare genuine smile.

"Only the best for _my_ best friend. Shirt trade it is." His shirt came off quickly. He could feel Eddie's eyes on him, but he pushed the thought away. _He's not gay,_ he reminded himself, _and neither am I._ Like he did every single day. Because it was so hard not to just grab Eddie and...

"What's wrong? Your face is all pink. Are— are you sick? I'm not wearing your shirt if you're sick, fuckwad—"

"I'm not sick, you hypochondriac," Richie laughed. _Maybe I am sick. Does being gay count as an illness?_

"Hypo-what?"

"Hypochondriac. Jeez, Eds. Check your local dictionary for once, you basket case." Richie gave him an innocent smile when Eddie reached out to flick him. _Stop being fucking cute. You're making this too difficult._

"Dick. Who's the one with the better grades?"

"Your mom."

Eddie barely reacted aside from rolling his eyes. "That was _unbelievably_ bad." But Richie saw him hold back another giggle.

Richie smirked. "That's the beauty of it. It was terrible, and you still wanted to laugh." He tilted his head. Eddie looked... _I shouldn't continue_. He'd only turn pink again.

"It's just rich, coming from you. You're the guy with Street Fighter for brains." Eddie shook his head. "This isn't fair. I'm supposed to be smarter than you. Who cares if I don't know one word?"

"It is Rich, coming from me. But not 'cause of my incredibly advanced Street Fighter knowledge. It's Rich coming from me cause that's my _name_. Duh." He accepted the glare he earned from Eddie with a proud snicker. "You're just going to have to face the fact that I am superior to you in all fields."

"Shut up." Eddie whacked him with the shirt he'd finally managed to get over his head. He tossed it aside, and Richie tried not to stare. It wasn't like Eddie had the body of a model, but Richie liked it that way. Sure, he was short, stubby, a little bit pudgy— in all the right places. Eddie didn't have to be a supermodel for Richie to like him. Eddie was perfect. _Eddie is perfect._

"What?"

"What do you mean, what?" Slowly, a feeling of terror dawned on Richie. _Oh, fuck. Please tell me I didn't say that out loud._

Thankfully, all Eddie replied with was, "You're _staring_ , stupid," as he pulled the dry shirt over his head. Richie scanned his face, realizing Eddie was blushing. And yeah, for a second, he did get a little excited. But he forced himself not to get his hopes up. Eddie was probably just embarrassed because Richie had been staring him down like some sort of creep.

Something about Eddie in his Freese's shirt drove Richie crazy. He looked good— fine— in that shirt. maybe he could keep it. After all, Richie had plenty. Besides, if he started running out, he could just button up his Hawaiian shirts and wear them by themselves instead of with shirts under them. But he couldn't let on that he was _actually_ enamored. _Because I'm not_. So, the next thing to come out of his mouth, in a very obviously fake-deep voice, was: "'Cause you're hot." To top it all off, he made a kissing motion at Eddie. _Yeah, that should do it._

Richie was delighted when Eddie had to force back a giggle. He watched the smaller boy simper and sighed contentedly. He'd made Eddie laugh so many times today. _So many times, I think, as if I'm not counting._ Eleven, so far. They'd only been together for an hour or so. Richie dreaded the moment Eddie would have to go back home to batshit Mrs. Kaspbrak.

"I want ice cream," Eddie said absently, tacking a sigh onto the end of his sentence.

"Ice cream?" Richie racked his brain. Going to the movie theater had blown a hole in his pocket— he was flat broke, unless you counted the two Bicentennial pennies in his underwear drawer, which he'd never spent because they were unique and special. How could he get Eddie ice cream without spending any money?

It wasn't looking too hopeful, until Eddie said, "We've got some, I think. Well, Mommy— Mom does. I don't really get to eat any."

"Oh. Why not?"

"Bad for my health. and I'm allergic to half the stuff in there." Eddie traced a finger through the sand that he'd just been saying minutes before was dirty.

"Do you really believe that?" Richie crossed his arms over his bare chest. Eddie's _wet and dirty_ shirt wouldn't fit him, he knew, so he'd left it in its spot in the ground by Eddie, opting for no shirt instead. Maybe it was going to look weird when they walked back into town, but he couldn't care less.

"What do you mean, do I believe that? Of _course_ I believe that, Richie. That's my _mom_. Why would she lie?" Eddie looked agitated, and it was only getting worse by the second, but Richie couldn't help pushing. "My mom doesn't lie to me, Rich. She's looking out for me."

"So you believe everything she says?" Richie didn't. Eddie didn't have asthma attacks. Eddie had _panic attacks_. Richie knew, because that stupid inhaler was useless, and it always got better when he was there to talk Eddie through it. He tried to be there as much as he could. He may not have known a lot about panic attacks— he'd only had one or two himself— so o he knew trying to tell Eddie about it would just make him look stupid. Eddie knew everything there was to know about asthma. Richie knew a small handful of firsthand experiences' worth of information about panic attacks. The lineup didn't match.

"Yeah, duh." Richie cast a sideways glance on the other, and Eddie seemed to realize that made him sound stupid. "Wait, I mean... Am I not supposed to?" Looking distraught, Eddie tilted his head. "Do you?" he asked, quieter.

"No." Maggie and Wentworth Tozier weren't _great_ parents. They weren't the worst, but they definitely weren't the best, either. And Richie's relationship with them was rocky. So it was natural not to trust everything they said.

"Oh." Eddie fell silent for a few seconds, his sheepish gaze meeting the ground. He messed with a loose thread in Richie's shirt, and Richie found himself staring again. _Come on, Tozier. You have_ got _to take it down a notch_. Eddie's voice broke his thoughts: "Well. I guess I won't, then."

Richie shrugged. "You don't have to change _your_ views or anything. I'm just saying... It's questionable, Eds." The serious mood was suffocating. Richie needed levity, and he needed it now. "If you want ice cream, why don't you just freeze some river water? Mmm, refreshing."

Eddie laughed softly. _That's twelve. Twelve times_. "That was stupid."

"Edward Kaspbrak, judging my jokes? Bold coming from a man who wouldn't know comedy if it hit him in the face," Richie sneered.

"I would too! I just know how to tell the difference between a _funny_ joke and a stupid one." Eddie crossed his arms. "It just so happens that none of yours are funny."

"Aww, Eds. You wound me. Come on, man! I'm not a fuckin' _comedian_. Maybe they'd be funnier if I was doing this shit for money," Richie snorted, poking Eddie in the shoulder.

"You could be."

"What?"

"A comedian." Eddie smiled. "You are funny." When a grin spread across Richie's face, Eddie backtracked quickly. "Only sometimes! Don't get a big head."

"Why, thank you, Eddie Spaghetti." It warmed his heart to know that Eddie did think he was funny. Even if he liked to ignore Richie or roll his eyes or even tell him to go fuck himself, at least Eddie thought he was funny. That was what was most important at the end of the day, right?

"Don't call me that," Eddie quickly replied.

"Why not, Mr. Spaghetti-o?" Richie grinned snidely.

"It's stupid."

" _You're_ stupid.

"Your mom's stupid." Eddie looked proud of himself for fitting a mom joke in before Richie could.

"Your face is stupid!" And with that, Richie smacked Eddie in the side of the face.

"Hey! Asshole! What was that for?" Eddie rubbed his cheek, and for a second, Richie was scared he'd hurt him. But he looked fine.

"That, my dear Eds, was comedy hitting you in the face."

"Oh my god." Eddie dissolved into boyish giggles, and Richie laughed along with him at his own joke. "Fuck you," Eddie breathed.

"Is that an insult or a to-do list?"

"Hey!" Eddie hit Richie, cheeks flushing again, and Richie rolled away, getting to his feet.

He offered his hand to Eddie, who took it, grabbing his dirty shirt on the way up. "Let's get ice cream if you want ice cream."

"I don't know if Mom's home," Eddie worried. "She's gonna be weirded out if I drag you into my house shirtless." Eddie glanced down at Richie's abs— it was to make a point, Richie assumed, but all it did was make him feel all fluttery inside. _Fuck._

"Then we sneak in through the window."

"There's a screen!" Eddie laughed.

"We can take it out, dumbass," Richie replied, pushing him in the head. Eddie elbowed him in the ribs, but he did have a genuine question that he asked slowly.

"From the outside?”

"Oh my _god_. You don't know how to, do you?"

"I don't exactly go sneaking out through my window every day, _Richard!_ ”

Richie's smile disappeared. All he could hear was his own father, snapping at him for another D on his report card. "Don't call me that," Richie replied quietly. And, unlike the way Eddie had said it before about 'Eddie Spaghetti'— full of sass with no real fire behind it— Richie was dead serious.

Almost immediately, Eddie looked concerned. Richie averted his eyes when Eddie asked, "What? What'd I do?" He didn't answer, nodding for Eddie to follow. "I'm sorry," Eddie tried. Richie couldn't find it in him to speak. "Really, I am," Eddie insisted. "Talk to me. Please?"

Richie gave in at Eddie's quiet plea, glancing to him as they started their climb up the hill. "My parents call me that."

"Oh. You don't like it, huh?"

"No. I don't like it."

Eddie nodded, looking up at Richie for a split second and then away. Richie felt a smile creeping onto his face again before he could stop it. _God, he's cute._

"So you're gonna show me how to take a screen out of a window?"

"Yeah, duh, Spaghetti Head." Richie reached over to tousle his hair until it was a mess, and Eddie scrunched up his nose. "Unlike you, I _do_ go sneaking out through my window every day."

"My hair doesn't even look like spaghetti." Eddie pushed Richie away, raking a hand through his hair so it would all lay flat again, and Richie produced another smug grin.

"Doesn't matter, Edward Spaghedward."

"That just doesn't make any sense." Eddie nudged Richie with his shoulder. Richie just kept on grinning.

"Does too. I'm great at nicknames. That one is fantastic. You're just a pussy."

Eddie rolled his eyes. "You're _shit_ at nicknames." Richie could only hope Eddie secretly liked the names he called him.

"No way. I'm a nickname _god_. I'm great at that and comedy. Those are my things. Yours can be... drawing. And swimming. You're a good swimmer." Richie beamed at him. _I'm being too nice. Not enough snarky comments._ But it was hard not to be a kiss ass to Eddie. Whenever he acted stupidly soft, it was usually to Bev and Stan. They got that privilege more often than not, but only because Richie liked to tease Eddie more than be genuinely kind to him. Somehow, it was easier to deal with his feelings— and easier to try to ignore them— when he was being a dick.

"Hey— Oh." Richie laughed when Eddie mistook his sentence for an insult before he even finished it. "Well... thanks." Eddie flashed Richie a shy smile. Eddie was self conscious about his art— Richie knew that. Eddie was self conscious about a lot of things, and he wished he could change that without coming on too strong. He couldn't just start showering Eddie in compliments every day. That was weird, and completely random. Not like him at all.

As they walked down the street in amiable silence, Richie bare chested versus Eddie wearing his shirt and dragging his own behind him, Richie thought about how thankful he was to have Eddie. _Eddie, Eddie, Eddie_. (He was careful to keep his mouth shut; Eddie didn't need to know Richie was thinking about him.) What would he do without Eddie? There had to be a way he could subtly voice his appreciation for the boy. Suddenly, he had it.

"Your hair makes you look like a banker from the fifties."

"Fuck off."


	4. Eddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie isn’t feeling too well, and he has to miss out on a meetup, so Richie steals him away for the night.

Eddie was sick.

He hated being sick. Being sick made him so uncomfortable. He wished he could crawl out of his own skin and jump into someone healthy's. Not to mention the way his mom always reacted: locking him in his room and calling it 'quarantine,' making him take a bunch of nasty (but necessary?) medicine, and not even letting him touch anything— including the phone. By far her worst rule was no seeing Richie. _Well, everyone_ , he corrected himself. He couldn't even warn them that he wouldn't be able to meet up at the quarry like they planned!

_This fucking sucks._

He'd had to use his inhaler five times in the past half an hour. He kept bouncing back and forth between being afraid he would never recover and being afraid Richie would be mad at him for ditching them today. The inhaler wasn't helping, exactly, but thirty minutes ago, he'd been struggling a lot more than he was now. So it wasn't like it did nothing. _I think._ Richie's words about his mom and her lying had made him think a little harder about everything she told him. But he still had faith in his inhaler. He'd had it for as long as he could remember. It wasn't like it was just... fake. He refused to believe it.

He glanced to the clock on the wall again and sighed. It was still only quarter to nine. How was he supposed to kill time when all he had to do was read? His "bedtime" was nine thirty, but it wasn't like he always followed it. It was the one thing he could be rebellious about besides stealing fruit snacks (with hardly any chance of being caught, considering his mom almost always slept early).

When Eddie's mom knocked on his door, he scrambled off of the floor where he'd been sitting, wiped leftover tears off his cheeks, and shot into bed, digging his feet under his covers at the same moment Sonia was opening the door. "Eddie Bear," she began, "I have soup for you. do you feel like eating?" Eddie shook his head, internally acknowledging how surprised he was when she asked him for his input. _She usually doesn't do that._ "Okay, honey," Sonia followed up. "I'm going to go to bed soon, but I don't want to hear you sneaking around past your bedtime."

Eddie froze. Had she heard him last time? Thankfully, the only thing he'd done past lights out the last time he'd broken it was grabbing a snack from the kitchen. He still felt guilty. Normally, he had (kind of) a strict dietary routine. Even so, he’d done worse things past lights out. He could only hope that the most recent incident was what his mother had heard. He nodded quickly, but she stared him down expectantly. Reluctantly, Eddie voiced his reply. "I won't, Mommy." He lifted his arm to cough into his elbow. Unfortunately, it wasn't just for show.

"That's my Eddie Bear." His mother gave him a smile that didn't suit her taut features. Only a second later, Eddie felt bad for thinking that. Sonia disappeared, leaving the door open a few inches— a huge pet peeve for Eddie— and he listened to her shuffle down the stairs again. Her room was upstairs next to his, but when he heard glass clinking together, he knew she had just gone to clean up the kitchen.

He wasn't tired at all, and he wondered what kind of mischief he could get into after hours when his mother was dead asleep in her room next door. He had learned long ago which stairs were creaky and where. Hell, if he ever forgot, he could probably slide down the railing. He was small enough, anyway. _What is Richie always saying? Spice it up?_ But that was dangerous, so Eddie had tasked himself with memorizing the creaky spots. So far, it had worked. _I’m a master of the arts, I guess._

He laid with his head hanging off the bed for a few moments. Then he remembered it was incredibly dangerous to have all the blood rushing to one's head for too long, so he slid down onto the floor and rolled onto his stomach, biting back another cough. From the floor, he stared up at the bookshelf that was a little taller than him and wished he had more fiction books. It was an odd thing for him to wish, considering how much he liked to educate himself about various illnesses and how to avoid contracting them, and that was certainly nonfiction.

When he finally heard his mother snoring a room over, Eddie sat up straight. He shot to his feet, and they carried him over to his bedside table, where he quietly eased the drawer open and grabbed the small piece of cardboard he kept that listed all his friends' phone numbers. He opened his door a crack, sucked in his stomach to be able to slide out without opening it any more (it creaked, too) and crossed the hardwood flooring to reach his stairs. He descended them strategically, his socked feet meeting the floor only in specific areas. Some stairs he skipped altogether, leaning on the rail for support. When he had finally reached the bottom, Eddie ran to the kitchen and approached the phone on the table, glancing one last time at the stairs again and then picking up the phone. Who should he call to explain?

 _Richie_.

Richie. Eddie felt his lips curl up into a little smile. He liked calling Richie. He liked calling everyone, really, but Richie was the easiest to talk to, even though he shoved a mom joke between every other word. Eddie had brought the list of numbers just in case, but he didn't need to look at it to know Richie's. He knew it better than his own. Carefully, Eddie poked the numbers into the phone and brought it to his ear, still smiling faintly.

When Richie picked up, Eddie immediately heard the tail end of a soft yawn. _I hope I'm not bothering him._ "Tozier residence—"

"Richie!" Eddie yell-whispered.

Immediately, the civil atmosphere was abandoned. "Eddie, you absolute _buttmunch_! Where were you today, you prick?"

Eddie yanked the phone away from his ear slightly and glanced to the stairs again, as if his mother could hear how loud Richie was speaking. "Jesus, you're yelling," Eddie mumbled. "I'm sorry I didn't come, I— I'm sick."

"Oh, Eddie." He was consoled by the fact that Richie understood. "Are you okay? What've you got?" Eddie felt warm when he heard how concerned Richie got in the span of a few seconds. He shoved the fluttery feeling down, chalking it up to being nervous about breaking the rules.

"Just a cold, I think. but... now that I think about it some more... I mean, it could be anything. It could be a staph infection. You ever heard of that? I know you have." His whispering had become frantic as he rambled, and it was slowly increasing in volume, growing dangerously close to wake-up-your-mother territory. "Or the flu. I haven't thrown up yet, but I might. It could be pneumonia! Oh, god. That would be so bad." Richie was saying something, but Eddie had forgotten what he was doing. His head was rushing and his chest was tight, and it was so, so hard to breathe. _I'm having a stupid asthma attack again._ He sucked in another shaky breath— "Fuck, fuck, where's my—" and it got worse all over again when he realized he'd left his inhaler in his room.

Richie's voice was making its way into Eddie's ears before he could descend into full blown panic. "Eddie! Eds? There you are. It's okay, Eds, just breathe, buddy. You're okay. Breathe with me, like this." The words were simple but effective. He did breathe, listening as Richie took heavy, exaggerated breaths so Eddie could follow along with him. It was hard, but it was working. "You're okay, I promise." _I promise._ Richie was promising to him that he was okay. Part of him wanted to think _how could he know that?_ But the other half of him was so grateful Richie's voice was there calming him down that he couldn't really argue.

"I'm okay," he repeated timidly, trying to convince himself more than Richie. "I'm breathing." His voice sounded too small. Too tight. Everything was wrong with it. He wished he had Richie's sleeve to hold onto. Or just Richie himself. The guy may have acted tough on the outside, but he still let Eddie cling to him when he needed to, which was unfortunately often.

"There you go. you've got it," Richie encouraged, and Eddie felt the panic slowly subsiding, its icy grasp sliding from around his neck. He realized he was gripping the phone so hard his knuckles were turning white, so he loosened his hold slightly, letting out a breath. _This sucks. Everything about this sucks_. He wasn't going to focus on the fact that Richie had talked him down from a supposed asthma attack. "You good?" the boy on the other end of the line asked. Eddie took a breath.

"I'm good."

"Fantahstic, my good fellow!" Richie chirped, laying the British accent on thick. "And is that ahll you've called to tell me on this oh-so-splendid night?"

Eddie couldn't help but let out a little giggle. "I don't know. What did you have in mind, reading the whole newspaper?"

"Of course not, my friend." Richie let the accent drop, now talking noticeably quieter. _He must have heard me complaining._ "Mrs. K asleep already?"

"Yeah. She sleeps really early." Eddie leaned back out the doorway of the kitchen to glance up at the stairs again warily. "But she's a light sleeper." That much was true. Thankfully, Eddie was small enough to make his footsteps exceptionally quiet, and he knew how to manipulate the drawers and things in the house in the gentlest way possible. He'd had to learn to get around her rules, after all, if he wanted to have the Losers as friends. Eddie muffled a cough against his forearm and waited for Richie to speak again, but the line had gone silent. "Rich?" _Did that asshole hang up on me?_

"Sorry, Eddie Spaghetti, I'm still here," Richie finally said, breaking the awkward silence. Eddie didn't bother to correct him on the nickname, twirling the phone cord between his fingers and grinning.

"What'd you guys do today?" He still felt sucky about having to miss out, and it was even worse that this time it hadn't even really been his mom's fault. He could be frustrated with her all he wanted, but she didn't get him sick. He'd gone and done that himself. _Maybe it was from falling into the cold water a few days ago._

"Not much. I pushed Stan into the water off the cliff. He yelled at me. Ben stared at Bev a lot. Mike did a flip. Then I did two in a row, 'cause I'm cooler. I can't believe you missed it," Richie rattled off, but he seemed kind of distracted.

"Yeah, man, I'm sorry. You didn't run into Bowers, didja?" Eddie cursed himself for sounding so worried. _I probably get it from Mom._

"Nope, no Bowers in sight all day. By the way, wanna come over?"

Eddie had barely had time to process and be thankful for the fact that Bowers hadn't cornered the other Losers today. He reeled at the question, eyes going wide. He lowered his voice back to a whisper instinctively. "Right now? Are you crazy? it's, like, ten P.M., just in case you haven't noticed."

"Yeah," Richie replied delightedly. "That's the fun part."

"No way, Rich, I can't. Mom will know... How do you even expect me to get outta here, anyway? The door creaks like crazy!" Eddie decided it would be much better to come up with reasons for him to stay home instead of letting himself get too caught up in the fantasy of hanging out with Richie way past curfew. There was no way that could go well.

"Remember that window screen trick I showed you?"

"Well, yeah, but..." Eddie paused, still not entirely convinced.

"Come _onnn_ , Eds, don’t be a pussy," Richie teased. Before Eddie could say no again, Richie was speaking. "I want to see you."

That did it. "Okay," Eddie breathed, mind racing. Richie wanted to see him. It was only fair of Eddie to fulfill the request. The realization hit him like a speeding truck: _Oh my god, I'm gonna do it. I am going to sneak out right now and see Richie Tozier._ It sent adrenaline coursing through his veins. "Wait— what about your parents?"

"Really?" Richie obviously hadn't expected it to work. He quickly rerouted and answered, "No worries. Dad's on some fancy dental business trip and mom's with friends."

A smile laced Eddie's lips.

"See you in fifteen minutes."

He set the phone down into its cradle as quietly as possible and ran to the junk drawer for a flashlight. He couldn't bring his bike— his mother would hear him getting it out of the shed— and no way in hell was he going to walk to Richie's house in pitch black darkness. He backpedaled a few steps, glancing toward the stairs again and debating grabbing his inhaler. On one hand, he felt desperately attached to the little medical device. Like he was in grave danger every time he didn't have it on him. On the other hand, it would be risky to sneak back up just for that one thing. Richie had helped him before... which meant he could probably do it again, right?

Before he could second guess himself again, Eddie was pulling the window open and hopping up onto the kitchen counter. He unhooked the screen and shimmied his way out, landing with a soft thump in the flower bed below. He stood on his tiptoes to replace the screen before flicking the flashlight on and taking off into the night in the direction of Richie's house. He realized he had left his list of phone numbers out on the table, but it was too late. All he could do was hope he got back home before his mother awoke so there was no evidence he was ever gone.

 _This is the most dangerous thing I've ever done in my life._ A smile took Eddie's lips by force. It quickly died when he remembered. _No. This isn't even close to the most dangerous thing I've ever done in my life._ The most dangerous thing he'd done was taunting a cannibal clown that had way too many rows of teeth. The thought made him shiver. He glanced to the side and picked up the pace. Yeah, maybe Pennywise was only supposed to come out once every twenty-seven years, but Eddie couldn't help being paranoid.

The night was quiet, and the light from Eddie's flashlight bobbed as he ran. He was frustrated that he had to take so many breaks to make sure he didn't give himself another asthma attack. But it was worth it. Getting to see Richie? Right now, by himself? _Hell yeah, it's worth it._

It wasn't until halfway to Richie's house that he realized he was still in his pajamas. He sighed at himself— _Come on, Kaspbrak, you’re smarter than this—_ but there was definitely no going back now. This was how he would show up to Richie's house: with his hair tousled from the wind and his clothes rumpled from sitting in bed all day. _Oh, well._ He was sure Richie had seen him looking worse, like covered in sludge from the disgusting leper version of It. Or, perhaps, covered in blood and dirt. _From the lovely Neibolt House Experience™︎_. He shivered again just thinking about it. _Damn, I really gotta stop freaking myself out._ Showing up at Richie's house in his PJs was no big deal compared to either of those options.

And show up he did. A little over fifteen minutes later, Eddie was standing at Richie's door, cheeks flushed and panting. He knocked and waited, and soon, it was opening to reveal Richie. Richie, standing there in his own pajamas— and squinting.

"Jesus, Eds, your flashlight's in my eyes."

Eddie grinned, waving it around to blind Richie and letting out a string of incomprehensible teasing noises. Richie laughed, grabbing his wrist and pulling him inside.

"Man, you do look kinda sick," Richie speculated once the flashlight was off and sitting on the counter. Eddie paled, and it seemed to make Richie instantly backtrack. "I mean, it's okay. It doesn't look too bad. I'm sure you'll be alright, Eddie Spaghetti."

Eddie flicked his arm. "Stop it." He set his hands on his hips. "Are we getting food or what, jackass?" There had been no discussion of it beforehand, but Eddie had eaten a light dinner, and now, being up past his normal time was making him starving.

"Sure. What do you want?"

"Dunno." Eddie knew Richie's house front to back by now, and he instinctively veered toward the kitchen. "What d'you have?" he asked softly.

"My ass." Eddie jabbed Richie with an elbow. _Don't blush. Don't blush. Don't blush._ "Fine, fine. I was thinking popcorn." Eddie gave a swift nod, following Richie into the kitchen. "You do know that you don't have to whisper anymore, right? I told ya. Mom and Dad aren't home." Richie cracked a grin.

"Oh. Yeah. Right." Eddie felt his cheeks heating. "Listen, I come from a very strict household—"

"And your mom's got a stick up her ass, your dad went to get milk seventy years ago, blah, blah, blah. Hey, don't hit me!"

"Then don't be a dick. My dad had cancer, Richie. It works a little different than a milk run." The sentence was somber, but it didn’t bother Eddie much. He didn’t remember much of the man. Frank Kaspbrak had died when Eddie was still five years old, so he hadn’t had a lot of impact on Eddie’s life.

The popcorn popped loudly in the microwave, and Eddie watched as the bag expanded, suddenly feeling a little dazed. He was here. With Richie. He had to keep reminding himself he wasn't dreaming. Just in case, he reached out for Richie's sleeve, taking hold of it once and then letting his hand slip away. _Yeah. I'm here_. A smile sprang to his lips once more. If he ignored the crippling anxiety of his mother finding him here instead of his house, then everything was fine. _Oh my god. This is the best night of my life_. Richie hadn't even mentioned the drawing, and Eddie's anxiety over it was slowly subsiding. Maybe he hadn't even been the one to find it. It was probably fine. _Yeah. It's fine._

"What's got you all giddy, huh? You're smiling like you just won a million bucks." Richie nudged him. "Thinking about a special lady love?"

"Hell yeah," Eddie replied. "Your mom. Go get the popcorn," he snickered, oddly proud of himself when Richie laughed.

"Can't be my mom. She's out. So whose mom is it? Bill's mom? Stan's mom?"

"Shut up," Eddie snorted, pushing Richie forward by the shoulder. "It's gonna burn."

"Yeah, yeah," Richie huffed, moving to grab the popcorn, "don't get your panties in a twist." He watched as Richie pulled the steaming hot bag out and glanced over his shoulder. "Nice PJs."

Eddie flushed. "Shut up." He took in Richie, his soft t-shirt and thin sweats and socks with a hole in one of them, and he grinned. "You look about as good as your Converse," he replied, knowing Richie's Converse shoes were absolutely wrecked.

"Fuck you," Richie laughed. "Hey, if we have popcorn, we have to watch a movie, don't we?"

"Well, yeah, that's how it works." Eddie felt giddy all over again. _Watching a movie. Watching a movie with Richie Tozier. Watching a movie with Richie Tozier at eleven P.M. Watching a movie with Richie Tozier at eleven P.M. by ourselves. Alone. Breaking the rules._ The last thought made his breath catch, but he took a grounding breath. _He won't let you get in trouble._ And even though Richie didn't even have anything close to the power to keep Mrs. Kaspbrak off of Eddie's ass about it if he got caught, it still helped to _believe_ he did.

"I'll pick a movie off the rack. You go get a blanket from my room," Richie replied simply. Eddie wondered if he was thinking about everything as much as he himself was. Probably not. Before Eddie could even open his mouth, Richie was saying more. "And don't you dare say anything about getting me sick, either. My immune system is impeccable, for your information," Richie huffed, reverting to British for the last few words. It was remarkable how well he knew Eddie.

"Deal." Eddie moved toward the hallway and into Richie's room, weaving his way around piles of junk. He visited enough to know the patterns across the floor the junk followed and how to predict where not to step because of it. He snatched up a blanket, and on his way out, his eyes snagged on the surface of Richie's desk.

There it was.

His drawing.

Eddie stared owlishly for a few seconds, shocked. There it was, all... taped together! And it was _here. Oh my god. He kept it._ That was mortifying— but at the same time, Eddie was honored. He thought Richie wasn't one for sentimentals. Had he really liked it enough to hang onto it?

For a moment, Eddie considered taking it back. Sneaking it back to his house. But then he felt too special to ruin it. He hurried back out into the living room, grinning from ear to ear. Richie only shot him a bemused glance as he fit the tape into the VHS player. He obviously had no idea he’d left the paper out. Eddie definitely liked it that way better.

Richie had dumped the popcorn into a bowl, and Eddie scrunched his nose when he caught sight of it. "You expect me to stick my hands in there?"

"Yes. That's how sharing normally works. Sharing is caring, Eds. Is it preschool time?"

"Shut up, you know what I meant. I'm gonna get you sick." Eddie plopped down on the couch, shimmying back into the cushions and pulling the blanket along with him.

Richie dug his legs under the same blanket and set the bowl on his own lap when he sat down. "Shut up and enjoy it. I heard your stomach growling earlier. Mrs. K is probably starving my poor wittle Eddie Spaghetti," Richie pouted, poking his cheek. Eddie batted at him again, as always.

"No way. I'm not eating out of that."

"Don't make me feed it to you."

Eddie's cheeks heated, but any hope of producing a comeback was lost when the movie started playing. Eddie recognized the music almost instantly from trailers on TV. "Oh my god. Pet Sematary?"

"Hell yeah."

"I can't believe you have it already. Are you sure, Rich? Isn't it supposed to be, like, super scary?" Eddie had always been bothered by the fact that it was spelled 'sematary' instead of cemetery.

"Don't tell me you're gonna chicken out now—"

"No! No, I'm gonna watch it," Eddie grumbled, pulling his legs up onto the couch to sit criss cross applesauce.

Richie grinned. "’Atta boy. Now, get some popcorn." Eddie didn't move. As the movie progressed, he jumped at different parts, each time scooting closer to Richie to make sure he was still there.

"Do you believe in soulmates?"

The question had come out of the blue, but it wasn't unheard of for Eddie to ask random things when he was anxious. It was normally whatever was on his mind. Once, he'd asked Richie his favorite color on accident even though he already knew it— he had since the first grade. He didn't know why this time it had been soulmates. It was a bit of an embarrassing question, really, but now he was stuck with it.

"Yes." For a moment, Richie looked like he was going to say more. Then, he glanced over to Eddie again, cracking a grin. "Mine is Mrs. K."

"Beep beep.” But Eddie smiled anyway, giving in and digging his hand into the bowl of popcorn. How was he supposed to resist it? He may have complained about getting Richie sick, but skipping dinner had made him ravenous, and it smelled so good. He couldn't believe he was eating this popcorn. He couldn't believe he had snuck out past curfew. He couldn't believe he was sitting here, next to Richie. Watching a horror movie, of all things. How could he voice his gratitude to Richie for letting him come over?

"Richie."

"Yeah, Eds?"

"Your fat ass is hogging the blanket."

Richie laughed, throwing part of the blanket back over to Eddie's side. "Fine, Spaghetti Head. Relax."

Eddie produced a smug grin, settling back into the couch. He glanced at Richie out of the corner of his eye and then to his shoulder uncertainly. _Should I even go for that?_ It seemed like a mistake, but Eddie was very tempted. Very tempted. _No. Don’t do that. That’s weird_. So he stopped himself.

When they were finally nearing the end of the movie, Eddie was half asleep. It was rare for him to be awake so long past curfew— his body was conditioned to forcing itself into sleep at nine thirty, no later, from years of living under his mother's rules. So now he was fighting to keep his eyes open, and he was letting his head fall, and he was vaguely recognizing the fact that there was actually something there for his head to land on. It was nice and warm, and maybe it was Richie, but he was too tired to be able to care anymore.

"G'night," Eddie mumbled, shifting his body so more of his weight pressed into Richie's side. An arm settled around Eddie's shoulders, and Eddie felt a tiny smile worm its way across his features. _Hmm_. _I hope that was Richie. I like Richie_. As his eyes fluttered closed and a yawn escaped his mouth, he stuck by the statement. _I like Richie. Richie is my best friend._

And best friends did everything for each other. So, when Richie woke him up only five hours later at six in the morning to tell him they needed to hurry up and get back to his house, he didn't even get mad. When the crisp morning air met his skin, Eddie's fingers curled tightly around his flashlight, and he was immensely grateful that Richie was there to walk him back home, even though it was mostly in silence, because they were up before the ass crack of dawn.

That was what best friends were for, after all. 


	5. Richie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie is faced with the threat of Henry Bowers and has a choice to make.

Richie wasn't one to take on Henry Bowers alone. Whenever he got cocky with the older boys, it was around his friends. So when he found himself cornered at his favorite game in the arcade— Street Fighter, naturally— with the older boy snatching a piece of paper from right out of his pocket, he knew he was out of luck. His mind was blanking; what had he been carrying on him? He didn't even have to know what Bowers had grabbed. It didn't matter. He was so totally fucked either way. 

"Hey, Tozier, ya little shit."

Richie opened his mouth to speak, but Patrick Hockstetter smothered it with his hand. Richie debated biting the boy but decided against it at the last second. That would only get him in trouble. Besides, Hockstetter was really doing him a favor. The less Richie could blabber, the less chance there was for him to fuck up and get hurt. Despite this fact, he was completely ready to lick Hockstetter's palm if necessary. Though he'd likely opt for a different approach first— Hockstetter probably didn't even wash his hands. 

Richie glanced to his side, but the only thing the rest of the kids did was stare. Nobody in the arcade would dare stand up to Bowers and company, and especially not for Richie, who was kind of an airhead anyway. He wasn't worth saving, wasn't worth their time. But Richie didn't need them anyway. He could do it himself— he was convinced. 

Even so, the hand covering his mouth made him antsy. All he could see in front of his Coke-bottle glasses was Pennywise, the stupid clown, staring him down and restricting his airway. Richie blinked once, and he was gone. He took a breath consciously through his nose, just to remind himself he could. _Shit_. He felt his shoulders go slack in resignation. _Oh, well._ Today was a nice day to get beat up, considering how, from what he'd heard through the grapevine (also known as Beverly), Eddie was out with Bill and now the two were nowhere to be seen. Thinking about it evoked a hot, tingly feeling in his chest, but that was a situation to be addressed at a different time entirely. 

The matter at hand was much more important.

Richie narrowed his eyes at Henry as the older boy kept speaking. "This belong to you?" He unfurled the paper, and realization slowly dawned on the shorter boy. _Ah, fuck._ It was the drawing of him— the one he carried everywhere now. because it reminded him of Eddie. Because he liked to be reminded of Eddie? No, no. Because the drawing was good. And he was just flattered. Because Eddie didn't normally take the time to draw people...

Bowers' presence was calling him out of his thoughts again, rather unfortunately, and Richie focused in on the boy's disgustingly dull eyes. Nothing like the soft hues of Eddie's that he had memorized by now. Richie hated this boy, and he hated the way he wouldn't leave them alone. He reached for the paper, but Hockstetter used his free hand to grab Richie's wrist, twisting it. A muffled sound emitted from his mouth against Hockstetter's hand. The crony shot him a glare. Richie decided shutting the fuck up was, in fact, the current agenda. 

"You have two options, freak." Bowers' free hand wrapped in the top of Richie's shirt, shoving him backwards. The back of Richie's head banged into the sharp edge of the arcade game behind him. The last time they'd cornered him alone, they'd shoved him in his own locker, and he had needed the janitor to let him out. He was relieved that at least school was out, because he didn't plan on letting _that_ happen ever again. His eyebrows stayed raised, and even if the hand over his mouth wouldn't let him speak, he didn't need to. His face said he was ready to listen. 

"You tell us which one of your little fuckwad friends drew this, and you're off the hook. We'll give it back. Simple, right?" Richie only nodded. "Or..." Henry grinned. _Oh, god_. Richie had come to recognize that look. The curly-haired boy sucked in a breath. He sure hoped this was going to be better than the first option, because whatever it was, he was going to have to pick it to spare Eddie. Right? "You can save your friend's ass, but you get to come get your precious little drawing later by yourself at the kissing bridge. Five P.M."

Richie's face fell. How could he do that? It was himself or Eddie. A huge part of him wanted to save Eddie over himself. All Eddie had done was draw what he wanted to. Plus, if he ratted Eddie out, the brunet might get pinned for being a _fag_. Just like they said to Richie all the time, even though he _wasn't_ gay. Probably. Right? Just wanted to be friends with stupid Henry Bowers' cousin _one time_. And he'd gotten himself played then, anyway. 

On the other hand, he was fucking terrified. The things Henry, Patrick, and the rest of their gang could do to him were innumerable. What would they try this time? Chasing his bike down until they made him crash and burn? Carving their initials into his skin? Throwing rocks at him as payback for the time Richie had started a rock fight that the Losers had actually won? (Yeah, he remembered it. So what? He was proud of initiating.)

With one last violent jerk, Henry was shoving Richie forward to bump his head again, and suddenly, Hockstetter's hand was gone. "You have thirty seconds to decide," Bowers spat. Richie's eyes grew wide. 

"Listen, man, I think I need more than thirty seconds—"

Bowers leaned closer, meeting his eyes. "Sucks to be you, then, 'cause now you have twenty-five."

Richie panicked. _I don't want to die._ Yes, maybe he was selfish. And maybe it was a little hasty to assume they'd actually kill him. And _maybe_ it was stupid to be so scared of a bunch of teenage boys when he had fought some sort of demented alien life form in the shape of a clown. But the clown was gone now, wasn't it? And now he had to face the present threat: the teenage boys— and the fact that he was probably at twenty seconds already. _Man, time flies when you're having fun, huh?_

"I, uh," he stammered brilliantly. _Great. Just great. Bravo, Tozier. What a show. I'd hire me._ "What— what are you gonna do to the g— person if I tell you their name?" He was careful not to say "guy." That was incriminating evidence. After all, Richie hung out with Eddie often. Bowers would be able to connect the dots. 

_Maybe. Isn't his IQ, like, fifteen?_

"Clock's ticking, Tozier," Henry threatened with a grin, refusing to answer. "Only twenty-five seconds left." Richie tried not to look too confused, hoping he could scrape by with the mistake, even though it had definitely been longer than zero seconds since the last time Henry had opened his dumbass mouth.

_Hmm. Fifteen may have been too generous of an estimate._

"Answer the fucking question," Richie spat again, teeth gritted. He had to know if he was right. If Bowers knew more than he was letting on. 

"I wouldn't want to know if I were you," Bowers hissed. "Besides, I think I know who it is. You confirm it for me, and girly boy's in for a little treat."

"Don't call him that," Richie hissed. Henry looked like he wanted to deck Richie in the face, but miraculously, he didn't. Staring up at Bowers' face, Richie knew he wasn't going to get any leeway. So he put his gift to use, and he did what anyone would know Richie Tozier did best: he started running his mouth. "You know, your mullet is very nice. What do you use in that?" Richie flashed a grin, watching as Bowers grew more and more bewildered. There were pros and cons to babbling away to confuse somebody. One of the pros was that he was buying time. One of the cons was that he had to talk to buy time, and to talk, he had to focus. So it was hard to decide on his real answer while his mind was elsewhere. "Do you use gel made of your own saliva? Or is it horse shit? Smells like it could be either, really. But it's styled well. I have to say I'm proud of you. Really, I'm sure you'll have all the hotties begging for dick tonight—"

Richie didn't see the hit coming. He was too busy rambling, making up bullshit, anything he could do to stall. While Bowers' fist colliding with his face hadn't exactly been an unforeseen variable, Richie had made a miscalculation in how long it would take for Bowers to snap out of his bemusement and do something, and now his glasses were skittering across the bright linoleum floor, and his hands were flying to his nose, and his hair was flying into his eyes. 

And all he could think was,

_I hope he doesn't go after Eddie._

"Tozier, if you don't shut the fuck up and pick an option," Bowers hissed, "I swear to fucking god, I'll drag you to the kissing bridge, and I'll snap your tiny fucking spine over the railing, and I will dump your disgusting little fag body into the river. And no one will ever—"

Richie thought suddenly of the missing child posters he had found back in Neibolt House. Back when It had been a threat. Back when he'd been panicking so hard, because it was _his_ face on that poster. And now it was all he could do to force out, "Fine!" just to cut Bowers' voice off. Just to give himself a teaspoon of sanity to live on until he could come to a decision. He didn't want to become just another missing child advertisement. God knew the adults in Derry did jack shit to look for all the poor kids who ended up starring in the posters plastered all over town. 

He fell into a crouch, patting the floor until he could find his glasses. The blood was running freely now. It beaded up under his nose and rolled down past his lips, his chin, and down his neck. It soaked into his white shirt, staining it with the remains of a losing fight. He wiped his face, but all it did was smear the blood across his face and his hand. Two drops hit the floor below him. Richie shoved the glasses back onto his face. 

The brevity of the situation was laughable. Only a few minutes earlier, he'd been playing Street Fighter like nothing was wrong. Maybe jamming the buttons a little too hard when he thought of Bill alone with Eddie, but that was harmless. This wasn't harmless. His nose stung, and tears from the pain were welling in Richie's eyes, but as he stood, he became painfully aware of the fact that it probably wasn't broken. Which would mean there was no use having someone look at it. All he could do was slap some ice on it and hope for the best. 

"I'll meet you there," he finally managed, eyes meeting Bowers' again. He really hoped the blood across his face looked badass and not stupid. Henry's lips curled into another sick smile, and Richie wished he could reach out and wipe it from his face— but he'd be overpowered in a matter of seconds. Instead, he reached up to adjust his glasses, eyes following Bowers' hand to try to check if he'd gotten blood on the paper. Eddie's paper. It was important, after all. 

"Seeya there, then, spaz." Henry knocked his palm into Richie's forehead. The shorter boy tried not to react much. He could feel the same hot tears trying to escape. He sucked in a hefty breath as Bowers and Hockstetter disappeared out the front door, and he made his way through the deadly silent room toward the bathrooms. He considered lashing out at the bystanders, witnesses who had stood by and done nothing but stare, but he put himself in their shoes and realized that he ultimately would've done the same. It was Bowers and Hockstetter. Hardly anyone was ballsy enough to take them on— especially to defend one of their favorite targets. 

By the time the tears were rolling, Richie had locked himself in the bathroom to stare at his face in the dirty mirror. _Man... It doesn't even look badass_. He ran hot water over his skin and lifted wet hands to rub his face clean of blood. His nose was a little red, and it ached. But he doubted it would stay that way for long. Just in case, he felt up and down the bridge once, but sighed in defeat when he couldn't find a break. He'd rather get pain medicine he would actually be able to take for a broken nose than suffer through a badly bruised version with little help from his good old buddy Tylenol. Unfortunately, it seemed his luck had run out in that department— as it had in _all_ departments today.

He lamented over the fact that he couldn't even call Eddie because he didn't know where he was. Where would he call? Kaspbrak residence? The Denbroughs' place? He didn't want to risk ruining a lie Eddie had spun to appease his mother, and he assumed the two were running around the Barrens. Or in the city. He let loose another soft sigh, rinsing his pinkish face one last time and giving himself a look in the mirror when more blood slowly rolled down to his cupid's bow. He wiped at it and then pinched his nose, throwing his head back and counting to try and get a handle on the bleeding. He glanced to the clock up on the vanity inside the strangely nice bathroom (for a business such as this one, anyway) and noted the fact that it was still only half past eleven in the morning. 

_This is gonna be a long ass day._

—

Richie had worried on and off about his planned encounter for the next few hours. He'd quickly found that he couldn't even enjoy Street Fighter that much anymore, especially when he was playing with some random kids who sucked or against the computer. So he had let others take over the game and ditched the arcade, hoping a walk through the city would help. 

It didn't. The heat made Richie's skin crawl, and his hair stuck to the back of his neck. It was days like these where he wished for a haircut. Then he changed his mind almost instantly. He was scared to change his hair. It was part of what made him Richie Tozier. He couldn't take that away. 

He was hoping for a breeze, but at— he checked the fancy watch he'd taken from his father's closet— 4:37 P.M., it was still overwhelmingly hot. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist again and kicked a rock. Pacing back and forth outside of that one cafe he knew Eddie liked wasn't really a great way to be spending his possible last moments alive. He figured he should probably be writing out his will. Or a thank-you note to the Losers for putting up with his bullshit. Maybe he could write a personalized note for Eddie about being sorry for getting killed. One to Beverly about how she should stop beating around the bush and get with Ben. Maybe one for Stan, too, just to apologize again for his bullshit. _God knows he's dealt with enough._

Richie swallowed hard, glancing to the glass doors of the cafe and patting his empty pockets. _Damn, I wish I had enough for a coffee._ His throat was dry with anxiety— the opposite of his clammy palms, which he quickly wiped on his jeans. 

_Someone get me the fuck out of this town._

He glanced at his reflection in the window of the cafe, noting the way his shirt stuck to his back, his face was flushed with the heat, and his nose was still a little redder than it should've been. _Great. So, on top of the sweat, I look like I've been making out with someone behind the McDonald's down the street. Absolutely fantastic. This day can't get any worse._

Oh, but he knew it would, because they were going to do things he hadn't even dreamed of. _Congrats, Tozier. You've dug yourself a deep, deep hole._ And now he was stuck in the hole with no way out. If he didn't go meet the boys now, he was probably going to get his ass kicked worse later. _I could just go into hiding. Changing my name and moving to Alaska seems like the best plan here._ Unfortunately, that would leave him with no Losers. Also, it was all the way on the other side of the continent. So Alaska was a no-go. 

He checked his watch again. 4:45. The looming threat was only advancing closer and closer the more he dawdled. He was going to have to get going. Richie was sure showing up fashionably late to a meeting with Bowers would only get him into more trouble. With a reluctant sigh, he trotted back to the arcade, unlocking his bike from the rack and throwing a leg over it. 

As he pumped the pedals with his feet, he wondered for a second whether this was going to be worth it. He sure hoped so. Of course, he'd rather it be someone else that got absolutely wrecked by Henry Bowers. He wasn't looking forward to being met with the violence he knew was coming. But what else could he do? _My Eddie Spaghetti is at stake._ He couldn't let Eddie get hurt. 

Every bone in his body screamed at him to _slow the fuck down, you're riding into a fucking battlefield faster than light._ He did slow down, letting the bike coast instead of pedaling, as he crossed the street he knew would take him to the kissing bridge. Richie worried that they'd seen the initials he had carved, but he consoled himself with the fact that the group of bullies had no way of knowing it had been him. There were plenty of kids with R and E names in Derry. 

He had to act like he was fine. He approached the bridge, where he could see a total of three or four tall shapes, and he swallowed hard, dismounting his ride. He left the bicycle by the railing, peering dismally over the edge and at the water below. _Let's hope they don't throw me in._

From a distance, Richie casually looked to the older boys, who hadn't seen him yet. Glancing down at his hands shoved stiffly in his jeans pockets, he was really wishing he hadn't worn pants. For one, it was hot. Why had he chosen this day of all days to wear pants? On top of that, they were hard to move around in. He was sure he would be needing to do a lot of squirming and kicking if he had any hope of getting out of this as a functioning human being. He shook his hair out of his eyes, and his glasses slid down his nose. They were most definitely going to be broken by the end. _Guess I should hurry up and get contacts_. He lifted a hand to push them back up, worried eyes sliding to the side. 

_Oh, man. I'm so fucked._

He almost turned around and went back home. He froze, hand hovering over his bike handle. But biting down on his lip helped ground him. _You have to do this._

So Richie Tozier sauntered over to the bullies who tormented him even in his sleep, daring even to whistle a tune before coming to a stop right in front of the three. They had since turned to glare at him. 

"Hey, boys. Ready for a little dance with the devil?"

They had him pinned against the railing on the right side in an instant. Vic Criss's hand was on his left shoulder, Patrick Hockstetter had his left, and Henry Bowers was flipping out a switchblade in front of his very eyes. Richie squirmed, shaking his shoulders. An attempt was made to grab at the railing. His goal was gaining leverage. Henry grinned when Richie failed. It looked like he was fucked. But as the sandy-haired Bowers advanced, Richie deployed the one trick he had up his sleeve. 

Nobody had thought to take care of his legs. 

"Merry Christmas, asshole!" Richie swiftly hiked up a leg. His heel introduced itself to Henry's crotch with a swift kick. The knife clattered to the ground. A quick assessment of the boys to each of his sides told Richie he wouldn't be getting his hands free enough to grab for it. Again, he stuck his foot out. The handle of the knife was trapped under his dirty Converse. Quickly, he dragged it back with enough force to fling it off of the bridge.

The knife dropped into the water with a quiet splash. Criss gasped, moving when he glanced down to look for the pocket knife. Richie took the chance he'd been given, lashing out with his left hand. It collided with Hockstetter in a swift punch to the nose. He reared back again, but before he could make another swing, a hand curled tightly around his bicep. 

_Oh, shit._

Bowers had recovered enough to grab Richie. The older boy threw him across the bridge. Richie lost his balance and tumbled to the ground. The back of his head— which was still sore from earlier— now came into contact with the railing on the left side of the bridge instead. The side he'd carved his initials into. Bowers' hand came in for another jab at his face, but Richie quickly scooted to the side. His thin shoulders covered the _R + E_ in the railing behind him, and Henry's fist met with pure wood instead. As the railing shook, Richie spouted off a quick, "Hey, nice try! I'm sure you'll get it next time, pal—"

Hockstetter yanked him to his feet. Richie stumbled, grabbing onto the railing behind him. "Hey, now, boys, this is gettin' a lil' violent, don'tcha think?" he drawled with a southern twang.

"Shut the fuck up, you retarded toad," Bowers snapped. He signaled Vic back in, and the second in command grabbed Richie by the shirt— apparently a common theme among the gang of bullies as a tormenting method— and shoved him backward. 

Richie felt his back bend painfully as Criss leaned him further over the edge. He scrambled for a vantage point, sneakers searching for a higher foothold. A desperate attempt was made to wedge his feet between one of the slats so he'd have a break from the pain. It wasn't working. Richie let out a frantic yelp when Criss shoved him harder. They were going to break his back. They were going to snap his spine, just like they had said they would. 

"Hey! Let me go!" Richie yelled, body twisting back and forth as he attempted to break free. He tried using his legs again, but the bullies had learned since last time. Hockstetter grabbed his ankles, holding them together. Criss smirked, nodding. 

Richie felt all the air leave his lungs when Vic threw his upper body over the railing. When he finally found his voice, all he could do was scream. He was at their mercy, being held by his ankles over what had to be a fifteen, twenty, thirty foot drop. He scrabbled for a grip at the railing, but came up unsuccessful. Another injured whimper came out of his mouth when he felt his ankles being passed to a different boy. Richie bent his knees and tried to kick up, but he glanced up and saw Bowers' laughing face and his hands around Richie's ankles. The younger boy quickly went slack. If he wanted any chance of coming out alive, he knew he had to let them do as they pleased. "How do you like it now, Tozier? Got any smartass remarks for us?"

And for once, the answer was no. 

"L-Let me back up. Please," Richie begged, feeling tears well in his eyes. His shirt kept falling down to his chin, exposing his thin frame and the way one could see his ribs through his skin. His pant legs slid up his shins. _I'm gonna die. I'm gonna fucking die here._

He wished he had let the clown kill him instead. 

Bowers just laughed at the pleas falling quickly from Richie's mouth. "Beg, you helpless bitch." He shook the boy, and Richie's body swung. He screamed again, the noise echoing so loudly it made his own ears ring. He knew he was screeching his throat raw, but he could hardly feel that when everything else was focused on the hands around his ankles and the way he was dangerously close to falling. 

He felt his glasses slipping from his face, so he pulled his head up. It only made them fall faster. For a moment, they got caught in his dangling, curly hair, but when his hands shot up to catch them, they were gone. He heard a tiny plunk, signaling that they'd fallen into the water. 

"Hey, Tozier! You ever met the railing?" It was stupid. Richie, through tears and snot and ringing ears, barely even understood the threat. But he didn't need to. Bowers was yanking him forward, and Richie's body was slamming into the railing. Once. Twice. Three times. He felt his skin bruising. The sound of another switchblade opening met his ears. He yelped again when cold metal dragged across the skin above his ankles. Slowly, more cuts were dug into his skin, and they began creeping up his legs. Richie Tozier screamed. 

_All this for a drawing. What a world we live in._

"You're not gonna get away with this!" Richie screamed through his sobbing, but it was no use. They kept on laughing, the blood kept on trickling, and the tormenting carried on. _Oh my god, I'm gonna die. I'm about to die. They're going to drop me, and I am going to fall and break my neck and die, and I will never ever see anyone ever again._ The tears streaming down (up?) his face were hot, and when they hit the water below, they sounded like little raindrops. He let himself go slack again. Just when he'd accepted his fate, just when he'd stopped fighting, just when he had given in to Henry Bowers—

"Hey, fuckface! Prepare for maximum fucking brain damage!" 

Eddie Kaspbrak. 

Richie could hear something hard making contact with a skull. He heard a body slumping to the ground. All of this was ignored, because he was _dangling over the edge of a bridge, for god's sake._ He could make out Bowers' voice screaming threats. It didn't matter. All he could focus on were his fellow Losers' voices. 

"You fucking scum!"

"E-Eddie, watch y-yuh-your head—"

" _I_ _don't give a fuck about my_ head, _Bill!"_

All the voices were merging together in Richie's ears. He was vaguely aware of his body swinging again. A hand wrapped around his right wrist. Without warning, his ankles were dropped. Richie yelped, dangling solely from the one wrist held by Hockstetter. 

"Richie!"

"Eddie, Eds, help, god, help me, please." Richie was sobbing, hardly leaving any room between his words. They all bled together. It didn't matter— the top three words he begged were all the same: _Eddie, help,_ and _please._ He hiked up his legs, trying to hook his feet between the slats in the railing. He didn't get a chance before he was being dropped. 

Dropped. 

The scream that ripped through the air was nearly inhuman. Richie's throat suffered the brunt of it, and everyone's ears were a close contender for second place in the who-did-Richie's-scream-fuck-up-the-most contest. He free fell for only half a second, though. A smaller, much colder hand was grabbing his. And then another. And they pulled— hard. 

"Richie!" Eddie called again, from much closer. Richie glanced up through tears. Even though his glasses were nowhere to be found, and he could barely see, Richie knew. He barely registered his own hands squeezing Eddie's back tightly. With the little energy he had left, he kicked his legs up, finally finding the edge of the bridge. Eddie helped him climb over it, his tiny hands never leaving Richie's body. When he finally crossed back into ground that he could stand on territory, he collapsed into a heap on the ground. 

"Oh my god," he breathed, feeling his body tremble. "Oh my god." It was all he could say. Eddie was speaking into his ear, but he could barely hear. He knew there was no way he'd be able to communicate that to Eddie. Instead, Richie pulled the boy closer, hands curling in Eddie's shirt. He rested his head on the shorter boy's shoulder until the message got across and he got what he wanted. Eddie's arms wrapped around his torso. Richie, still shaking like a leaf, cried into his shoulder. 

"Richie, I'm here. Hey, Rich. Hey," Eddie mumbled, still holding onto him. Wrapping his arm around Richie's head, burying his fingers in the boy's curls, holding him up. "Hey. You're okay now. I got you, I promise."

It was the comfort he needed. Richie nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. _I promise._ Eddie was promising that it would be okay, and despite the near death experience he'd just had, Richie found himself believing the words. _It's okay_. Or, at least, it would be soon. 

He lifted his eyes as another blurry shape approached them. "Richie, th-th-thank god." A pipe clattered to the floor, and Bill ran to the two on the ground, crouching and grabbing Richie's shoulders in his hands. "Rich, w-w-wuh-where are your glasses?"

"They fell," Richie managed. He could feel blood still seeping from the cuts above his ankles. "What happened to—"

"Shh, shh. I'll tell you everything later." He felt Bill's hands leave, heard footsteps leading away. Soon after, Bill's grip was replaced with one of Eddie's freezing cold hands cupping his cheek. "It hurts, I know. Look at me. Look. I'm here."

"Eds, I-I can't see—"

"Shush. Let me do the talking. You're okay. You're here. You're safe. You're alive." Somehow, Eddie knew all the right things to say. He knew what Richie needed to hear. Eddie's hand brushed some of Richie's curls out of his face, and Richie managed a nod.

"I'm here," Richie repeated. 

"You're here," confirmed Eddie. 

Bill spoke again. "G-Guys, we gotta go. We p-pissed 'em off. They m-muh-might come back." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, aiming at the phone booth a little ways down the street. "I c-c-called Stan. We c-can come over, hi-his parents are out."

Richie felt Eddie's hands move. He whimpered, afraid they'd leave, but Eddie slipped his arms under Richie's, pulling him up by his armpits. When Richie buffered for a second, unmoving, Eddie nudged him with his shoulder. "Come on, you hog, get up. I can't do this shit myself." 

Richie nodded, still holding to Eddie's arm. "Wait—" He scrambled the rest of the way to his feet, shooting away from Eddie and forward after Bowers. The pain in his legs was striking, but he was more worried about something else. "The drawing. Eds, he still has your drawing. I need—"

Eddie grabbed his arm, pulling him back. He smoothed down Richie's hair. "I'll make you another one." He pulled Richie's arm over his shoulders and patted him on the back. "Now come on, Rich. We gotta go."

Defeated, Richie nodded, and Bill led the way as they forged onward. They'd have to come back for the bike later, and there was no hope for his glasses. The current in the water was strong enough that they'd be long gone by now. So the raven-haired boy held tightly onto Eddie and wondered when he had become such a shitty fighter. _Looks like Street Fighter knowledge does not equal real life knowledge._ He swallowed hard, running his tongue over chapped lips. "Thanks, Eds." 

Eddie shook his head. "You'd do the same for me." For once, he didn't even tell Richie not to call him Eds.

  
  



	6. Eddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie can’t sleep, but neither can Richie.

Eddie was sprawled out across his floor, staring at the ceiling and waiting for dawn. His mother was, he was pretty sure, at a friend's house. She had walked out the door only after making him promise to call her every hour to let her know he was okay. Every time, she had reminded him of something. To do his chores, take his medicine, or just to tidy up. At nine P.M. he had told her he was going to bed. She hadn't called again. He was shocked— she didn't often leave him alone by himself (even though he was thirteen now and could handle it perfectly fine).

In his defense, he _had_ tried, and he had fallen asleep! But then the nightmares came, and Eddie had bolted up in a cold sweat. So now, naturally, Eddie was awake. Something about the eerie silence of the house without his mother's snoring was off-putting, and he knew there was no way he was getting back to bed at this point. The thrill of being home alone, though, had faded quickly when he realized how dark and quiet the house was. It was past three in the morning, and he was shocked that his mother wasn't home. It seemed she would be staying the night at her friend's house. He hadn't anticipated this at all.

Eddie glanced again to the open door to his room. Most of the lights in the house were on— Eddie didn't trust the dark. He hadn't liked it _before_ the fiasco last summer, and he _definitely_ didn't like it after. He sat up, glancing to the shelf at his side and deciding to busy himself in a book. But that didn't help, either. His eyes kept sliding right off the page.

He slammed the book shut with an irritated sigh, shoving it away from him and crossing his arms. He wasn't supposed to use the phone after his bedtime. He wasn't supposed to do _anything_ after his bedtime. And even though he'd broken that rule before and gotten away with it, it still made him feel unhealthily guilty.

He wanted to talk to Richie, but he didn't want to wake the boy up if he was sleeping. If he called him, the phone's ringing would be loud. Even so, he was tempted anyway. Slowly, Eddie got to his feet and headed for the doorway, determined. Yes— he was going to call Richie.

His blood ran cold when he heard something collide with his bedroom window. Eddie stumbled back, eyes wide. He froze like a deer in headlights, staring at the window, and he was only set into motion when another thud sounded against the glass. The blinds were open, and it was dark, so he wasn't sure, but it looked like... rocks?

Eddie scrambled back, crouching to grab his fanny pack as he moved. He shoved his back up against the opposite wall, eyes wide. After a moment's contemplation, he dropped to his knees and stuck a hand under his bed, ignoring all the dust even when he coughed. Shaky hands quickly emerged with a baseball bat. He tossed the fanny pack onto his bedside table and gripped the bat with white knuckles, still staring at the window. Another rock hit. And another. Eddie didn't move. Just when he was about to panic, his outstretched hand reaching to dig in his fanny pack for his inhaler, he heard a muffled voice.

"Eds! Open up!"

He'd recognize that voice anywhere. "Richie!" The bat was immediately abandoned, dropped to the floor like it was nothing. Eddie ran around his bed and stopped in front of his window, yanking it up and quickly peering down at the yard below. There stood Richie Tozier, a dumbfounded grin on his features.

"Oh my god, you _are_ awake!" he started, and then quickly shook his head to correct himself. "Eddie, my love! Let down your hair!"

Eddie laughed, running a hand through his hair and trying to ignore the heat that rose to his face at the nickname. "No way, dude. Jesus Christ, what are you doing here? It's, like... _way_ too late."

"Yeah, way later than _your_ bedtime," Richie cracked. "Hey, speaking of your bedtime... Why aren't you whispering, Spaghetti Head?"

"Beep beep. Mom's out with a friend." Eddie soon realized he was grinning way too hard for it to be natural. Quickly, he tried to force it down and smother it. He could only hope Richie hadn't seen it.

"Really!? Oh my god, why didn't you call me?" Richie called up, setting his hands on his hips.

"I thought you were _asleep_ , Trashmouth!"

"I thought _you_ were asleep, and then I came by, and your _lights_ were on!"

The two fell silent, and suddenly, both took off running. An unspoken agreement. Eddie abandoned the window, not caring to close it again, and he ran so quickly down the stairs that he practically flew. Richie's palm was smacking into the door over and over a second before Eddie yanked it open. Richie hit him once in the face before pausing, eyes wide. Eddie opened his mouth to fire one word at him.

"Bitch."

A smile broke out on the taller boy's face, and Eddie felt the butterflies in his stomach again. Except their wings began to beat way faster when Richie rushed forward and into the house, throwing his arms around Eddie. The hug didn't last long, but to Eddie, those few seconds were everything. Richie pulled back, tousling the hell out of his hair, and Eddie ducked, laughing. "Whatcha doin', loser?" Richie greeted warmly.

"Your sister. Come on, close the door." Eddie padded to the door to shut and lock it, turning back around to grin at Richie. "You first. Why aren't _you_ asleep?"

Richie shrugged loosely. "No reason, really. Didn't feel like going to sleep." Eddie noticed how his smile faltered a bit, but he decided it would be better to push. Nothing good ever came of pressing Richie for information— all he did was get more stubborn. "Now your turn."

Eddie flashed him a wry grin. "Same reason. Mom was out. I felt like being a little rebellious." He figured it would be better if he didn't mention the nightmares. He was right— Richie laughed, and Eddie shoved him in the shoulder. "What? I'm not kidding." It was huffy, but the grin still pulled at his lips anyway. Richie hooked an arm around his shoulders, and Eddie felt drawn to him, so instead of throwing it off like he sometimes did, he let it stay. _It's three A.M. and Richie Tozier is in my house._

_How does this keep happening?_

He pulled Richie up the stairs, not bothering to avoid the creaky spots. "Come on. Let's go do something."

"Like what?" Richie asked promiscuously, waggling his eyebrows. Eddie only snorted, flicking his shoulder. He was too exhilarated to bother turning the lights off— any of them. Even though he felt a hundred times safer with Richie around, the lights still helped. Besides that, he was too caught up in the adrenaline to even think about it.

"I don't know. A board game?"

"What, you only have board games?" Richie flashed a grin. "I have a GameBoy."

Eddie gasped. "Really!? Why didn't you bring it?" He shoved the boy in the chest, pouting. "We could've _played!"_

"Be _cause_ , I'm not _allowed_ to bring it out of the house yet. It's brand new, I had to get it shipped from Japan. But my dad did it for me as... an early birthday present." Richie stick his tongue out briefly. _What a child._ "You have to come over to my place tomorrow if you wanna use it."

"Deal. What time?"

"Doesn't matter. I'll wait for you." Richie flashed him a sweet smile. Eddie felt his ears get hot, so he pushed away from the boy, surging into his room to close the window. "Man, Eds, it's kinda... messy in here," the raven-haired boy teased, eyeing the book and bat on the floor and the towel in the corner.

"If I had known I was having guests at three in the morning, I might've tidied up a little more," Eddie huffed, kicking the bat back under the bed. He crouched and picked the book back up, fitting it carefully into its place on the shelf. "I have my NES, but it's in the living room, 'cause I don't have a TV in here. It's risky to play down there."

"Why, you think some creeper is gonna stare into our windows?" Richie laughed. Eddie shifted uncomfortably, and the raven-haired boy's smile dropped. "Aw, Eds, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were really concerned about it."

Eddie rolled his eyes. "It's fine." He grinned to restore the vivacity in the room. "But I have Monopoly."

"Monopoly is shit when you only have two people."

"Stratego?"

" _Now_ you're talkin'!" Richie grinned, plopping down onto the floor. Eddie paused only once to throw the dirty towel into the hamper before swiveling around, heading for his closet. He glanced up to the game on the shelf and stood on tiptoes, but his fingertips still only barely brushed the bottom of the shelf. With a frustrated groan, he turned to Richie, who was distracted with a string hanging off the end of his comforter. "Rich."

The taller boy glanced up. "Hm?"

"Come help." Richie tilted his head, and Eddie sighed impatiently, pointing up to the game on the top shelf. "I can't reach."

"Ohhh." Richie flashed a teasing grin as he got to his feet. " _I_ see. Ickle Eddiekins can't weach the game—"

"Just shut up and get it down!" Eddie huffed, moving back and plopping down on the edge of his bed. He could feel his cheeks getting pink, so he rubbed at them in a feeble attempt of making the blush fade. "I'll get my growth spurt. My— My mom said I just have to wait a little more."

"How little is 'a little'?"

"Oh, beep beep."

It wasn't long until they were in the middle of a heated Stratego battle, sitting criss-cross applesauce and facing each other on top of Eddie's bed with the game board between them. Eddie had killed more of Richie's men, but they were all the weakest. Richie was clearly saving the big guns for last— and one of his pieces was dangerously close to Eddie's flag. Capturing it would make Eddie lose immediately.

Eddie noticed how Richie's glasses kept sliding down his nose every time he looked down. He was having to adjust them a lot. They were a little big on him, probably because they were new; he had finally gotten new ones a few days ago after losing them in the fight with Bowers. Eddie's stomach soured; he remembered how he had run into the match with nothing but a pipe he'd found by the side of the road, whacking Hockstetter in his dumb, stupid, idiot skull. Eddie had been seeing red from the moment he realized it was Richie dangling over the edge of the bridge. Bill had resumed the fighting when Eddie ran to help Richie back up, and the three bullies had run once they realized Hockstetter was out of commission and they only had one pocket knife to fight with between the two of them that remained.

He was glad he had been there to help Richie. To calm him down. Stanley had let them stay over, and they'd all huddled together, watching some dumb romantic comedy until they all fell asleep sitting up on the couch. Of course, Sonia had been furious when Eddie turned up in the morning, but Eddie had managed to scrub Richie's blood out of his pale shirt before she could see it, so lying about the fight had been simple.

To his horror, Eddie zoned back in only to watch Richie move his piece one square to the right. Right into Eddie's flag. "What's this guy?"

" _Fuck_ ," Eddie breathed, turning the piece around to reveal it was his flag. Richie sat up straighter, whooping with joy.

"Hell yeah! That's two and oh! I'm kicking your _ass_ right now, Spaghetti Head." 

"Come _onnnn_ , Rich, you promised to go easy on me!"

"Hitler promised not to invade Czechoslovakia, Eddie. Welcome to the real world," Richie bit back instantly. Eddie threw his hands up in exasperation, and Richie laughed. "You can't be sensitive if you wanna make it here."

"I'm not sensitive, you mouth breather! Ugh, you stupid bastard. I would've won, too, if your fucking bomb didn't kill my strongest guy. Asshat!"

"Such dirty words from such a pretty little mouth." Richie gave him a smug smirk, and Eddie felt his face clouding over with heat.

"Shut _up_. You're probably cheating."

"I'm not cheating! You just suck ass," Richie laughed. Richie handed over the pieces he'd stolen off of Eddie's side of the hoard so they could reset and play again. When Eddie heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like the front door opening, though, he leaned forward to glance out the window. He noticed one crucial detail:

His mother's car was in the driveway.

"Shit!" He quickly leaned back onto the bed, pausing to panic before his hands got to moving.

"What is it?"

"Mom!" Eddie yanked the board and gathered all the pieces up, throwing them into the box and then leaning over the edge of his bed to shove the whole thing under it. 

Eddie froze when he heard more footsteps came from below. His head whipped around, bangs falling into his eyes. "Did— Did you hear that?" he whispered, wide eyes focusing in on Richie. The curly-haired boy only nodded. Eddie sucked in a breath, glancing to the door.

"Eddie, honey?" _Shiiit. Shit, shit, fucking shit._ He needed to think of something, and he needed to think _fast_. Richie was going to have to hide somewhere. But there were no good places— the closet was too small for Richie, the bathroom was way too open and obvious, and under his desk was just stupid.

"Uhh... Get under the bed," he quickly hissed. It was the only option left, and his mother usually didn't get down low enough to see under there, anyway.

"What? Are you crazy? No way. I'm not—"

The stairs were creaking. Slowly, one by one. "Eddie Bear," his mother called again, "are you still up?" They were running out of time.

"Yes way. Get under there. Come on, Rich, _please_. You can't get in trouble if she doesn't see you," he whispered. If his mother only saw him, Eddie could get away with maybe a light grounding for still being awake. Maybe nothing at all if he pulled his strings right. But if she found them _both_ in here... They were going to be in for a wild ride.

"But it's my fault you're up!" Richie hissed back furiously. "And I'm not getting under the fucking—"

The door handle was turning. Eddie shoved Richie down by the chest, quickly throwing his blanket over him and scooting closer to cover the view of the lump with his body. His owlish eyes shot to the door, where his mother stood.

_Shit. I left all the lights on._

"Eddie, honey, why are you still up?" Sonia Kaspbrak was asking. Meanwhile, Eddie was panicking. He had no good answers. He was just lucky that his blanket was old, and lumpy, because the stuffing inside was bunching together. It made Richie's figure under it much less perceivable and a lot more concealed. He opened and closed his mouth, guilty eyes turning to his mother. But she assumed something entirely different. "Oh, baby, is it the nightmares again?"

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. He did not want Richie to know about those. "No, Momma, I... I'm..."

Eddie was scrambling for a different excuse that wouldn't get him grounded for a month, but clearly, what Sonia saw was a boy trying to hide his feelings. "It's okay, honey, you can tell me," she prodded softly. Eddie realized his left hand was still under the blankets. As his mother sat down on the edge of the bed, Eddie moved his hand the tiniest bit. His freezing hand met with Richie's warm skin, and slowly, they linked pinkies under the blankets. The whole time, Eddie kept his eyes trained on his mother.

_Might as well play the part now._

"Y-Yeah, Mommy, it was n-nightmares again," he lied, sniffling. Yes, he _had_ had nightmares, and yes, that was part of the reason why he was up. But it wasn't the whole truth. He sniffed again, his gaze casting onto the bedsheets. He could make himself cry. All he had to do was think about... honestly, there were a lot of things to choose from.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

Eddie quickly shook his head, knowing he wouldn't be able to come up with a fake nightmare that quickly without messing it up and botching the whole thing. And he sure as hell couldn't tell his mother what his frightening dreams were _really_ made up of. "N-No, I..."

 _Think about Richie._ He did. Butterflies rose in his stomach. _Now think about if Richie_ didn't _make it out of Neibolt. Think about if Richie_ didn't _make it away from Bowers. Think about what would've happened if you and Bill hadn't made it in time to save him._ It was astonishingly easy— or maybe Eddie was just emotional. Either way, tears were already pooling in his eyes. _Think about It. And how it almost ate your fucking face. And about your arm, and being stuck up against the wall, and Richie yelling at you to just look at him instead, but you_ couldn't _, because It was coming, and..._

With a start, Eddie realized he was full blown sobbing, snot and all. And it was _loud_. He hadn't cried this way in ages— not since last year. Maybe earlier, considering right now, Eddie was sobbing like a little kid, with barely any breaths in between. Richie seemed to know this; his hand moved under the blankets, grabbing onto Eddie's the rest of the way. He squeezed Eddie's hand. Eddie squeezed back.

And there they were: two boys hiding a huge secret and holding hands.

Sonia leaned forward to wipe his tears, pulling him into a hug. Eddie closed his eyes against her shoulder. His arms didn't come up to hug her back. "It's okay, baby. You don't have to tell me. Is that why the lights are on?" Eddie only nodded through whimpers. "Why didn't you call me, Eddie Bear?"

"I— I thought—" Eddie couldn't get the words out. Now that he had himself going, he couldn't stop. He sniffed again, letting out a soft wail. "I'm sorry." But he wasn't apologizing to his mother. There was another squeeze to his hand. Richie rubbed his thumb back and forth across Eddie's skin, and it was soothing. Enough for him to breathe again. "I— I thought you would be asleep."

"I would've come home for you, Eddie Bear. You should know that." His mother leaned back, smoothing down his hair. Eddie nodded. "Now, do you need me to sleep in here with you, or—"

"N-No," Eddie forced out immediately. "No. I-It's okay, I'm okay." Reluctantly, his mother nodded. She finally stood from the bed, moving back.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Eddie replied firmly.

Sonia sighed, moving for the door. "You turn the light off when you're ready, okay? You can stay home tomorrow, if you want."

"N-No, Mommy, I'm— I'm going over to Richie's." Eddie dragged his free arm across his face, wiping his nose with the back of his wrist. "We're gonna play on his GameBoy."

"Okay... well... you be careful, Eddie. Richie... He's not a very good friend to you. He isn't a good influence." Richie's fingers loosened in Eddie's. Eddie squeezed his hand tighter.

"Momma, we talked about this."

"I know, but..."

"Richie is my _best friend_ , Mommy. He's a really good friend. He..." Eddie glanced quickly to the vague shape under the blankets and back to his mother. "He's always there for me, okay? I know it looks like he's a bad kid. But he's not. Really. I _promise_."

"If you say so, Eddie," Sonia sighed. She was clearly too tired to argue. "I'll come check on you in the morning, okay?"

"Will you, um... will you knock, please?"

"Sure, baby," Sonia said warily, and for a second, Eddie loved her as much as he loved the Losers. Then, she said, "I'll bring your pills, too," and he remembered that he didn't. "Goodnight." With that, his mother shut the door, leaving the two boys alone.

Richie immediately popped up from the blankets. His eyes widened at the sight of Eddie's tearstained cheeks. "Oh my god, you were—" Eddie held a finger to his lips, shaking his head. _Not yet, dumbass. She_ just _left._ Eddie waited until he heard his mother's door close to let Richie speak.

"Whisper," Eddie said, he himself whispering.

Richie obeyed. "You— you were really crying?"

Eddie looked away shamefully. "Well..."

"No, Eds, hey. It's okay. Why... what happened? I thought... damn, Eds, I thought you were faking for sure. You're a _damn_ good liar, you know." He didn't mention the way Eddie stuck up for him, the way he combatted even his own kind-of-crazy (was she crazy?) hypochondriac mother on her opinions. So Eddie didn't say anything about it, either. After all, he knew Richie would do the same for him. Now he had to focus on the task at hand: convincing Richie to buzz off. That it was no big deal.

"I dunno." He pulled his legs to his chest, still not moving his hand. Richie didn't move his, either. Their fingers remained intertwined. "I started thinking about... you know. Last summer. And, well... it's silly, but I thought about how I was scared that you weren't gonna make it. Last summer and a few days ago with Bowers."

"Oh." Richie fell silent, seemingly mulling it over. Eddie lowered his head, resting his cheek on his knees.

"Sorry. I told you it was stupid."

"It's not." Richie chewed on his lip. "I didn't really come over here just because I didn't feel like sleeping, you know."

Eddie managed a little smile. "I figured." Richie wasn't one to tell the truth about how he felt, but Eddie had known him since... what, first grade? Maybe even kindergarten? It was safe to say Eddie was pretty good at reading his best friend by now, and Richie wasn't exactly super subtle when he was lying.

"I get them, too."

Eddie's eyebrows shot up. "Nightmares?" He hadn't pegged Richie as the type to have nightmares, but now that he thought about it, it made sense. They'd all been through hell, after all. Every single one of them had suffered.

"Yeah." Richie glanced to Eddie, squeezing his hand again. He looked like he half regretted saying it, but he didn't start laughing or say he was joking or anything. He was dead serious. "You're not alone."

"Do you wanna..." _Do you wanna talk about it?_

"No. It's okay." Richie flashed him a smile. "It's not too bad. I'll... come to you if it gets any worse."

"Okay." Eddie took a shaky breath. "Thanks, Richie. Really." He lifted his head again, reluctantly letting his hand slip from Richie's so he could wipe the tears that stained his cheeks.

"Sure, Eddie, my love," he teased softly. Eddie only rolled his eyes, even though he felt his heart skip a beat. "Is that all?" Eddie didn't answer. Richie frowned, nudging him gently. "You can tell me."

"You're not allowed to tell anyone."

"What? Of course not. I'm not gonna— Eddie, that's not why they call me Trashmouth. I don't _gossip_. Who would I gossip to, anyway?" Eddie had to admit, it was true. Richie didn't hang out with a lot of people— not regularly, at least. But there were some people...

"Bev?" Richie and Bev were close, enough to be siblings. _Or lovers._ But Eddie didn't like to think about that. Besides, as far as he knew, they'd never kissed or anything. Richie would've told him. Probably. But... he didn't think he was as close to Richie as Bev was. Hence the concern.

"No. No, Eddie, I won't tell her. I don't shit-talk. I just have a dirty mouth." Richie's eyes were earnest, and even though Eddie was wary, he knew he could trust this boy.

"Promise?"

"Of course. I promise. I _swear_."

Eddie shifted uncomfortably. To tell or not to tell? But Richie was sitting right here, willing to listen. He had promised not to tell anyone, even Beverly. And Eddie hadn't had someone to tell it all to in a long time. "I just... I guess I feel like I have to prove myself. You know? 'Cause... my mom is such a helicopter mom. And I'm afraid people think... I'm stupid. For carrying the..."

"The fanny pack." For once, Richie's tone didn't hold any sign of teasing.

"Y-Yeah. And... listen, Richie, I don't know. I really don't. I just feel like I have to... prove my worth. Prove that I'm cool. Or else they won't wanna invite me to hang out anymore."

"Eddie..." Richie turned, angling his body to face him more. "Eddie. Look at me. Okay?"

 _Look at me._ Richie always said that when he was trying to calm Eddie down. He had noticed— of course he had. He noticed everything the other did. Eddie nodded, shifting to face the taller boy. "Fine. I'm looking."

"You don't have to prove anything to anyone." Richie gave him an uncharacteristically encouraging smile. The words weren't complicated, or really that deep, but they helped. _I don't have to prove anything to anyone,_ Eddie thought to himself to consolidate it. _That's right. I don't_. "We're the Losers Club," Richie was saying. "Of course we're not fucking _cool_. And you know what? It's fucking awesome." Eddie laughed softly, and Richie grinned. "What? I'm serious! We're losers, and it's great. You know it's true. Say it."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

"We're losers. And it's great," Eddie mumbled, feeling his face get hot— for once out of embarrassment instead of being flustered. "There."

"Say it like you mean it."

 _Say it like I mean it? What the hell does that mean?_ "We're losers, and it's great," he said again, half-timid. How was he supposed to say it like he meant it?

"Like you _mean_ _it_ , Edward!"

"We're losers, and it's fucking _great!"_ he finally huffed, putting power behind the words. He was a little scared his mother had heard, but he soon realized he could hear her snoring from her room. _Phew_.

"There you go. That's my Eddie Spaghetti." Richie gave him a slap on the back. "There you go," he said again. _You already said that..._ But he didn’t mind. Eddie's skin tingled where Richie had touched him. "Feel better?"

Eddie snorted again, but Richie was right. He _did_ feel better. And he knew the other would be able to tell, so there was no use lying. Now the only thing left to do was sneak Richie back _out_ of his house. "Come on, Rich. You gotta get home," he murmured quietly, but the smile was still stuck on his face.

"Yeah, yeah."


	7. Richie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie and Bev’s day out.

It was quiet. It was boring. It was 84 degrees, record-breaking temperatures for Derry, and Richie had nothing to do. After his sixth time calling Eddie's house— in fifteen minute increments, naturally— Sonia had told him to shut up and give it an hour. Eddie was obviously busy. Richie found it weird that Sonia hadn't told him what exactly Eddie was doing. Had the younger boy not told his mother where he was going? That was impossible. Sonia made him tell her everything. Did he specifically tell her not to give away where he was?

_I'm overthinking this. Probably._ Richie was laying sprawled across the floor in his hallway, staring up at the phone on the wall. He checked his watch again and then groaned. It had only been seventeen minutes since Sonia had yelled at him and hung up. _Great_.

Being away from Eddie sucked a lot. Richie was close with Stan and Bev, too, but he was pretty sure Stan was 1) totally done with Richie's shit for the week and 2) doing some religious studying thing with his family or something, and Beverly... he didn't get to hang out with her often because of her piece of shit dad. So Eddie was, naturally, his go-to. Why wouldn't he be? He was small and cute. He was funny and smart. And it was really amusing to tease him all the time. Besides, Eddie didn't have to know that Richie was only half joking when he called him cute.

_But that's weird_ , he reminded himself. He got to his feet, trotting back into his room to plop down in his desk chair. _That's weird,_ he thought again, as he yanked a drawer open. Out of it, he pulled out a lined piece of notebook paper. His eyes traced the outline of the new drawing. Instead of just a side profile of his blank face looking down, he was smiling in this one. He was smiling right at the person who was looking at the paper. He was smiling at Eddie.

_Yeah, that's really weird._

Eddie hadn't asked him to pose for this. All he had said was that he promised to draw a new one. Obviously, he had, and he'd given it to Richie personally this time, instead of Richie having to steal it from his pocket and hold it as a secret keepsake. He was relieved he hadn't had to explain, really, why he had known about it and complained so much about it when they were dragging him to Stanley's after the big scuffle with Bowers. Eddie had told him that he'd seen it on his desk. Naturally. Eddie always knew all. Richie could hardly find it in him to keep anything from the small hypochondriac.

Aside from a few minor details about feelings. _Which is weird._

The recent fight with Bowers had been stuck on his mind for the past few days— more so the rescue that had come after. Eddie was always complaining about being in danger, or getting sick. He didn't even like to roughhouse. He wasn't that kind of kid. He froze up in dangerous situations. They'd all seen it happen before. But Richie remembered hearing him, pipe swinging into Hockstetter's head. He remembered Eddie's hands pulling him up and his small arms draping around his body. Richie remembered Eddie taking his face and begging him to look at him. Telling him it would be okay, just like Richie had done for him in the house on Neibolt Street. Richie sighed, a tiny smile gracing his lips. _Damn. Eddie Kaspbrak, my hero._

Richie stared at his own smiling face for a few more seconds. He smiled with it and marveled at the fact that the paper now felt like a mirror. Eddie knew every crevice of his face so well. It even looked like every freckle was in the exact right spot. Had he thought that about the last one? Probably. He had liked that one almost as much as this one. But this drawing... His whole face, smiling brightly, glasses and all. Why did Eddie know it so well?

_Stop being weird. He's known you for a million years. That's all._

It was easy enough to convince himself it was true, but that was temporary. He needed to talk about this. He had to. He had to get it off of his chest, and maybe that would make it go away. Locking it up in the corner of his mind was doing jack shit, so Richie decided he needed to take a different approach. He set the paper carefully back in the drawer and slammed it shut, racing for his hallway. He needed to go somewhere.

Richie ran to the phone, glancing up and to the left as he tried to remember the number. He didn't have them written down anywhere because he kept losing the paper every time he tried. He'd given up after the third time and decided to commit them to memory. Luckily, he had a lot of space in his head for numbers, considering it was filled mostly with Street Fighter knowledge and mom jokes. It didn't take him long to jab Beverly's home number into the keypad on the phone, holding it to his ear.

"Hello?"

Richie let out a breath. "Can you be at the clubhouse in—" quickly, he racked his brain for an estimate. "Fifteen minutes?" _Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes_. He needed company. He needed to rant, really, but even if she wasn't in a good mental place for him to rant to, he would enjoy sitting with her.

Beverly's voice was quiet as she answered, "Make it twenty and you're on."

He figured she was trying not to wake her dad, so Richie got off the phone as quickly as possible, uttering only one more word: "Deal." He slammed the phone back into the receiver, folding the paper back up. He only leaned halfway into his room, hanging on the door frame to check the schedule on his wall that would tell him if his parents were home. "Mom!" he yelled after scanning a few times and dates.

"Yes?" he heard Maggie call back. Richie figured she was probably doing taxes. Or maybe just sitting sadly in her room, lamenting over the fact that she had a son and not a daughter. Richie pressed his lips together, searching for words that would make him seem innocent.

"I'm going out. I'll be back before, uhh..." He leaned back, glancing to the clock. It wasn't very late yet— only in the late afternoon. _Doesn't matter, anyway._ "Dunno, eleven?"

"Ten."

"Ten thirty!" Before she could rebuttal from whatever room she was in, Richie was throwing his front door open. He snatched his bike up from the yard, walked it down to the street, and then he was off. It was time to consult a friend.

—

_The love shack is a little old place where we can get together..._ Richie swung side to side in the hammock, staring at the ceiling. He still wasn't a hundred percent convinced of the stability of this place, but he figured it couldn't be _too_ dangerous. Besides, they had all helped stabilize it a little more in the spring, and now it was stronger and better than ever. The comic book he had been trying to read lay mostly untouched on his chest. He couldn't focus. All his thoughts kept gravitating to Eddie. They'd only been in here for maybe half an hour, sitting mostly in companionable silence. But he wanted to speak.

He glanced to the radio on the table— which was blasting a song he'd heard way too many times from his parents' car stereo— and then to Beverly, whose gaze was captured by the magazine in her pale hands. She swayed back and forth on the swing, kicking her legs gently. "Alright, Trashmouth. Spill," she spoke, surprising Richie. He hadn't told her his reasoning for wanting to meet up yet. But, he supposed, she just had that kind of intuition. She closed the magazine, slapping it down onto the floor, and crossed her arms. "I know you wanna." One of her feet still pushed her back and forth using the ground as leverage. Each time she moved forward, the hooks holding the swing to the ceiling creaked again.

"I don't know where to start." Richie reached over to dig his hand around in the box of Whoppers sitting next to the radio. There was almost always one in here thanks to Eddie's secret candy obsession. His mother didn't let him have much, if any, and he always complained under his breath about how unhealthy it was when everyone _else_ had a bunch of candy, but everyone knew he had a sweet tooth himself. _Love shack, baby, love shack._

"Those are Eddie's, you know," chuckled Beverly. He ignored her warning, dipping his hand lower until his fingers met with the cold pieces of candy. "He's gonna be mad that your grimy fingers touched his Whoppers."

Richie cracked a grin. "He doesn't have to know."

"Be honest. You tell him everything."

"I do." Richie sat up in the hammock, eyes scanning the old wood inside the clubhouse and then finding Bev again. _This is going to suck._ "That's what I have to talk about."

She chuckled. "I know." When Richie opened his mouth to ask how, Beverly shook her head. "I know you better than the back of my hand, Rich," she snorted. "I know when it's 'talk about Eddie' time." 

Richie rolled his eyes, flopping back down into the hammock. "Listen..." For once, he couldn't think of a good comeback. Did he really rant about Eddie enough for her to recognize when he wanted to? He finally removed his hand from the box of candy, shoving two or three chocolate coated Whoppers into his mouth. _Mmm, diabetes._ Beverly flashed him a coy smirk.

"You totally have a crush on him."

_Oh, shit_. "What!?" Richie sat up so quickly that the hammock tipped him out, nearly choking on his candy. He was sent flying to the ground, landing on the dusty wood floor with a grunt. _Well, fuck_. "I don't have a _crush_ on him, Bev. I'm not _gay_. I— I'm not a— a—"

"Rich, relax."

"I've never been less relaxed in my life," Richie commented dryly, dragging himself up to sit. _Huh, where'd that come from? Must've picked that up from good old Stan._ Beverly was one of the only people he didn't joke with 24/7. He could be serious with her, no matter how strangely out of character it made him look, because she would never judge him.

"Tell that to Pennywise."

"Oh, fuck off." But Richie was laughing under his breath, running a hand through his curls. Exhilarated— and a little bit in shock. If Beverly thought he liked Eddie, that meant she didn't hate gay people. (Was there a word for that? Hating gay people? Had to be. He'd check it out later.) For now, he glanced to her again. "You think I'm...?"

"No shit, Rich. Everyone can see that." She changed her wording after catching sight of his alarmed eyes. "Well, not... everyone. You're not _that_ obvious. Clearly _Eddie_ has no idea. But you're also not un-obvious, either. You're in the... middle."

Richie groaned, leaning his head fall back to rest against the floor. "This is _not_ good."

"Aha! So you admit it!"

"I didn’t admit shit."

"Come on, Rich. I mean, seriously. You've shared the hammock with him. You've shared ice cream. You've ridden on the same bike. You've messed up each other's hair constantly. You've—"

"Alright, okay, I got it, _Nancy Drew_ ," Richie huffed. "What the fuck do you even know all this stuff for? You just like to stare at us while we talk?" _The love shack is a little old place where we can get together..._ His eyes stumbled upon the stolen stop sign hanging on the wall a few feet away. _Yeah, Bev. Stop_. This was humiliating. He was trying to tell her something he'd been hiding for so long— too long— and she already knew? _This is stupid_. But at the same time, it was relieving. This wasn't news to her. She was taking it well. She _had been_ taking it well. He hadn't noticed her drifting or anything. And she clearly already knew, so... _At least it's going better than I thought it would._

"Because!" Beverly had since jumped up from the semi-rickety swing. She was pacing back and forth across the creaky floor of the clubhouse, her steps bringing her to one wall and then across and back to the other. "I don't have to watch you closely to know you obviously act like more than friends! And you’re perfect for each other. I wouldn't be surprised if you were secretly—"

"We're not." _Oh, how I wish we were._

"Promise?"

"Why would I lie?" Richie sighed, sitting up and throwing his hand out. He waited for her to take it and then pulled himself to his feet, frowning dismally. "Listen, Bev, I'm gonna tell you something you can't repeat."

"Aww, you're being so serious now. You really do like him."

"Bev gets off a good one," Richie scoffed, feigning annoyance. But soon they were laughing, and bending forward slightly, and gripping onto each other's arms while tears sprang to their eyes from cackling too hard. Their laughter soon died down, like it always did, and Beverly spoke words that made Richie cold inside.

"You like Eddie Kaspbrak."

His natural reaction? "Nah, his mom is more my type." Richie rubbed at his eyes, still grinning. The cold feeling was dissipating. Beverly was still here, talking to him. And she definitely thought he liked Eddie. Yeah, I'd say this is going well. "Listen—" he began again, but he was rudely interrupted for what had to be the millionth time.

"No way. I've heard enough. You don't have to say it out loud for it to be true, Richie." Beverly dug around in her pocket and produced two cigarettes. _Thank god._ He was really beginning to need one of those. Bev handed one to Richie, lighting her own and sticking it in her mouth. She leaned forward to tap the end against Richie's cigarette until it was flaming, too. "Come on. You know they don't let us smoke in here," she beckoned, scooping her bag up and throwing the strap over her shoulder.

"They can deal with it," Richie grumbled, but he obliged, slapping a hand down on the radio to turn it off and following her up the ladder anyway. If, by some miraculous chance, he was wrong, and Eddie _did_ have asthma, it would be stupid to stay down there and risk leaving smoke everywhere. And even if Eddie didn’t have asthma, the shorter boy would hate it either way because of the smell it left.

"Today on 'Richie Secretly Cares About His Friends,'" Beverly teased, waiting until he was out of the way to slam the trapdoor shut. "Come on. You couldn't hide how you feel with all the mom jokes in the world." They started off for town, traipsing through the woods without a care in the world. Well, with one care in the world. The care about Eddie Kaspbrak. 

"Except I can. And I have." The silence was deafening. Richie tuned in to the sound of their feet crushing sticks as they walked and the grasshopper in the bush they had just passed. Beverly's bag was swinging back and forth, hitting her in the back with almost every step. He glanced up to the sky and breathed in sweet, sweet nicotine. _I'm getting better at not coughing._ He sighed, smoke curling up off of his lips, and faced the words he really didn't want to say. "Firstly because I'm a master of mom jokes. But... He doesn't know. You said so yourself."

"Then you've gotta tell him." Beverly grinned at his aghast expression. "You know you want to."

"Yeah, of course I do! But he doesn't like me!" He shoved her in the shoulder gently, and she hiked a foot up to knock it into his shin. Normal, casual banter like this made him happy. Beverly was comfortable enough with him to touch him without being so weird about it like countless people in their class did. Or maybe it was just because she knew he... wasn't really into girls.

It didn't matter— he had more important issues to deal with: Beverly's sudden interest in his nonexistent relationship with Eddie. "Are you crazy?!" _Here we go again._ "Grow a pair! Can't you see the way he looks at you? You have giant glasses. You couldn't possibly miss it— hey!" Richie's hand was tugging at one of her curls. She batted him away.

"He doesn't look at me any way. He barely even meets my eyes."

"Yeah, because he likes you, and he's _flustered_."

"I annoy him."

"You annoy everyone!" Beverly stopped walking, turning and taking Richie's cheeks in her hands. They were warm against his skin, and he felt a pang of disappointment. He missed Eddie's freezing cold hands. "And we love it! If we hated you, trust me, we wouldn't keep you around." She squeezed his skin between her fingers. _Huh. My cheeks are chubbier than I thought._ "You think _Stan_ would put up with you every day if he didn't secretly love you to death?"

Richie didn't expect the words to do anything, but he felt warm. Happy. He grinned. "I knew it. You fuckers love me." It was nice to hear, really. Being the complete opposite of serious all the time made it hard for him to gauge what everyone else actually thought of him. But he trusted Beverly's judgement.

"Don't get a big head," she laughed, letting him go. He kept on smiling. _They love it._ Yeah, he was annoying as fuck, and yeah, everyone was done with his bullshit at all times. But they also loved it.

They walked on in silence for a few more minutes, trampling leaves and twigs and saplings on their way back into town. Walking out here was therapeutic. Then they didn't have to worry about leaving the bikes up on the surface for someone to steal. Plus, they always talked on their way there and back. It was good for both of them. They always took turns explaining stories and feelings whenever they met up to walk. Richie figured he probably talked about Eddie a lot without realizing it. _Embarrassing_. But at least there was an outlet.

"God, Bevvie, I think I _do_ like him," he blurted out of the blue. It was a little terrifying, considering he'd never really said it out loud before. He glanced nervously to Beverly for her reaction.

She was smiling. Reaching over for his shoulder to squeeze it. "I'm proud of you," she said, and _damn_ , that was the most confusing thing that could've come from her mouth in that moment.

"Proud?"

"Yeah." She slung her arm around his shoulders. "I'm proud of you for admitting it, dickhead."

Richie soaked this information in. So Beverly was proud of him for being a... He couldn't make himself think the word. But now that he had come clean, he couldn't stop. "He's just so..."

"Perfect." Bev was definitely gloating over there, happy over the fact that he was admitting it. Richie wouldn't let it deter him. _Yeah. I like Eddie_.

"Yeah," Richie breathed. "Absolutely." His lips turned down at the corners. "But I don't know how to tell him."

"Then don't." Richie's eyebrows shot up. He lifted his head questioningly and met Beverly's eyes. Wasn't that the exact opposite of what she was trying to get him to do? He waited to hear more. "Not yet, at least," she continued. "It'll come to you. The perfect way to tell him."

"Will it?"

"Yes. Trust me." She grabbed his hand, turning it over and patting his knuckles with her free one. "Here. I'll give you some good luck." She moved her cigarette to hold it between her fingers and brought his hand up, leaving a soft kiss against his knuckles. "You'll need it, after all. You're a fucking idiot."

"Not as stupid as you," Richie sang, but something about the action bothered him like it never had before. It was as casual as she always did it, but he was nervous. Maybe it was just because they were talking about feelings today, but... "Do you _like_ me?"

"What? No." Beverly's voice was firm. "I do not like you like that, Richie Tozier. You are _disgusting_."

"Hey!"

"I'm not wrong!" she laughed, shoving him. "Really. I don't like you. You know that." She flashed him a reassuring smile. "A promise is a promise." That was right. They'd both pinky promised a long time ago to come clean if one of them ever started falling for the other. "I'd tell you as soon as I caught feelings if I ever did, so we could banish those fuckers."

"Thank god. I got scared." He flashed another grin, reaching up to ruffle her hair. "I don't know how you don't like me, though. I'm obviously the epitome of the male species."

Bev took his hand and tossed it away. Her other hand brought the cigarette to her lips again. She took a drag, blew out the smoke, and then said, "You wish you could get chicks."

"No I don't." And then they were laughing again, because _damn_ it, he wasn't allowed to make _gay_ jokes in front of anyone else, but they were fucking _funny!_

"You definitely don't." Beverly slung an arm around his shoulders again as they came out of the woods and onto the sidewalk. They redirected, Beverly dragging him back into town. They were quiet as they passed stores upon stores full of stuff neither of them could afford. "Okay, Trashmouth," Bev finally spoke again. "If we get ice cream now, and then get to the arcade, then—" She stopped dead. "Richie? What're you staring at?"

"Your mom," he replied quietly, but his eyes were glued to two figures across the street. Without thinking much, Richie grabbed Bev's wrist, pulling her into the nearest alley. He stood flat against the wall for a few seconds before slowly peering around the corner.

Beverly's head followed, appearing right under Richie's. Despite her confusion, her voice remained nothing more than a quiet whisper as she asked, "What the fuck are we looking f—"

"Eddie and Bill." Richie's eyes scanned the street again until he caught the two familiar brunet boys. "They're together."

"Together?!"

"Not like that." Richie narrowed his eyes. "I think." He could only hope. What was he going to do if Eddie and Bill were together? _Cry, probably_. He watched them for a few more seconds, frowning as they disappeared into a popular five and dime store. "They're going into McCrory's."

"Do you want to follow them?"

Richie turned to stare at her. "Are you fucking crazy? Who do you think I am?" Bev laughed, and he jabbed an elbow into her ribs to shut her up. She reached over to put her cigarette out on his arm. He yelped, turning to flip her off. _Of course she would._ He shook his head and flicked his own cigarette to the ground, crushing it with the toe of his Converse. Once he couldn't see the other two Losers from outside the store window anymore, he motioned her forward. Together, Richie and Beverly crossed the street, jaywalking like their lives depended on it. Beverly stuck an arm into her bag, fished around for a few seconds, and then pulled out a pair of sunglasses, fitting them over her eyes. Richie looked her over and then snorted. "That's a shit disguise."

"What? Why?"

"Your hair gives it away, ginger." He pulled the door open, nearly swearing when it dinged upon their arrival. _Snitch!_ He darted out of the front immediately, eyes sweeping over the shelves. The store was fairly big, but he was certain they wouldn't be able to hide for long. He nodded for Beverly to follow, darting into one of the aisles and hiding behind a sunglasses rack.

Beverly spoke what he was thinking. "This was a terrible idea."

Richie wouldn't let her deter him, no matter what his brain was yelling at him. _She's right. You're going to get caught._ _Eddie is going to hate you if he finds out you're following—_ He cleared his throat quietly. "No way. This is the best idea I've had in weeks." He grabbed one of the bigger pairs of sunglasses and fit them over his real glasses, grinning. "Can you tell?"

Beverly chuckled. "Shh. We're gonna get caught."

Richie rolled his eyes, shoving the glasses back into the display rack. "Okay, okay. Now we just have to look for—" He stopped dead when his eyes snagged on a familiar Spaghetti Head. "Nevermind. Found 'em. Ten o'clock sharp."

Beverly slapped his arm. "What's that mean, nerd?"

"A little to the left!" Richie grabbed her chin, turning her head slightly. _Come on, Bev. Get with the program!_ "They're walking by the stupid makeup displays." Sure enough, there were Bill and Eddie, on their way past a set of tables with a big sign that flashed Cosmetics above it.

"Got it." Before he could tell her to wait, Beverly was slinking forward, casually integrating with other shoppers. She slid between the crowds easily. Richie felt his jaw dropping. _Why is she so good at that?_ He scampered after her, dirty sneakers silent against the bright floor tiles.

Richie's shoulder collided with Beverly's when he skidded to a stop behind a dress rack that was tall enough to hide most of their bodies. It was a good thing they had moved, because Bill and Eddie were circling around the cosmetics stand and heading back for that same sunglasses display. They were speaking, but their words didn't reach Richie's ears. The store had too many people. _All of you, just shut up!_ he wanted to yell.

"And then he..." Eddie was saying as he passed. _Oh, Eddie_. Richie strained his ears, but he just couldn't tell what the smaller boy was talking about. He glanced to Bev, but she gave a minute shake of her head. It was clear she was lost, too. _Dammit!_ They were so close. Just a few steps closer and they'd have instant access to the conversation. But moving any more would mean moving into the aisle. The empty aisle. That was a suicide mission— their cover would be blown immediately. From afar, Richie watched the two stop in front of the stand, messing with different pairs of sunglasses. There was a mirror built into the rack, and Eddie made a face at himself.

Beverly yanked her Polaroid out of the bag slung around her shoulder, zooming in and snapping a picture. Richie glanced to her, wide eyed, as the picture printed and she pulled it from the top of the camera. She jiggled her bag open again, moving to drop both the camera and the picture back inside. Richie's hand shot out to stop hers before she could finish the action. "Wait."

"Wait?" She raised an eyebrow, and anxiety gnawed at Richie's insides. He was going to ask her for a creepy picture of Eddie from far away, while they stalked him inside a department store. Did he really want to do that?

_Yeah. I do._

"Can—" Richie paused, pulling at the collar of his shirt. All Beverly did was stand there expectantly. _Very helpful._ Then again, he couldn't depend on her for _everything_. "Can I have it?"

Beverly glanced to the still-developing picture, seemingly considering. "Well..." Richie's heart soared. "No." She flashed a grin, dropping the items back into the bag, and Richie sighed, hopes crashing and burning. _I don't know what I expected._ "Don't you have other pictures of him?"

"Yeah, but I also like the ones where he doesn't spend ten hours making sure every hair on his head is in the right place. He knows I took most of the ones I have of him."

"Most?"

Richie's face burned at her snide grin. "Shut up before I call animal control on you, you..." He trailed off, and Bev was saying something, but he wasn't hearing a single word. In fact, he was completely zoned out and staring across the store, where Bill Denbrough was sliding a pair of Aviators onto _Richie's_ darling Eddie Spaghetti's face. Bill's slim hands pushed the sunglasses up Eddie's nose, and a grin appeared on the tall Loser's face. But Richie wasn't worried about _Bill_ smiling. No, the worst part of it all was _Eddie's_ smile. The one Richie had always wished he could keep for his eyes only. A pain struck his chest, and he let out a forceful breath. _I'm gonna die_. Maybe a little bit of an overreaction, but this was just too much for his poor heart to handle.

But the worst was yet to come. Eddie nodded at something Bill had said, his smile falling in exchange for that more serious, focused expression he wore so often. "Like this," Eddie said. The small boy lifted Bill's hand and laced their fingers, and Richie felt like he'd been punched. He averted his eyes, staring at the ground below him. _Come on, Eds. He's only an inch taller than me._

He was getting whiplash. One day he hung out with Eddie and thought they shared something special, but the next... He looked to Bill and Eddie again and immediately wished he hadn't. Their hands weren't linked anymore, but Bill was moving Eddie's hair out of his eyes, and then Eddie was laughing, leaving Richie feeling hollow. _Why can't that be me?_ He glanced to Beverly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the same way they did every time he was upset. He knew. He'd seen it in the mirror before.

Beverly sighed, glancing to the two boys by the sunglasses stand and then pulling Richie into her arms. She smoothed down his wild curls, and he rested his cheek against her shoulder. _What would I do without you?_

"Do you think...?" he asked quietly, leaving the question evidently open for interpretation. He cursed his voice for being so shaky. _It's not that big of a deal, Tozier._ But it _was_. It _was_ that big of a deal. Enough of a deal to set walled up, always laughing, never serious _Richie_ close to tears. _What does Bill have that I don't?_ He closed his eyes against Beverly's shoulder, lips pulling into a frown. His hug was tight, but he knew Beverly didn't mind. She was holding him back just as tightly.

"No way." Beverly pulled back, her hands gripping Richie's shoulders. "You two are _perfect_ for each other. I said that earlier, didn’t I? I wouldn’t lie to you. Besides, I'm pretty sure Bill likes someone else." This made Richie's eyes snap up quickly. Did she mean herself? _Yeah, Bev, get that dick... wait a minute._ That was what he had thought at first, but her eyes were twinkling in that way they always did when she was getting into mischief, and now he was second guessing himself.

"Who?"

"Now, now, Mr. Tozier, that's classified." Richie opened his mouth to argue, but from the corner of his eye, he caught Bill and Eddie approaching. Despite the way it hurt to see them hanging out, he still got butterflies in the pit of his stomach. _Damn you, Eddie Kaspbrak_. Richie grabbed Beverly's shoulder and turned them both around, wide eyes landing on anything he could find in front of him. Subsequently, he pulled out a dress that would clearly pool around Beverly's feet if she ever tried to put it on. He flashed her a strained smile. "Wouldn't this look great on you?"

"Oh, yeah. It's such a pretty blue, and..." _What a load of bullshit_. As soon as they were sure the other boys hadn't noticed them, Richie and Beverly sprang to action. The boy hooked the hanger back on the rack as fast as possible and shot to the other side of the aisle, staring at Bill and Eddie through the gaps in the shelf.

"...And I just don't know if it would be a good idea," Eddie was saying. "I mean, he's my best friend. I don't want to ruin that." _Finally, something I want to hear._ Richie leaned closer, peering at Eddie's small figure as he spoke. "But I also really want him to know, you know? Because sometimes it feels like he—"

Richie was stepping a little too close to the shelf. When he lifted his hand, reaching up for Beverly's to squeeze it, his arm swept a variety of children's toys off of the shelf in front of him. Both he and Bev dropped into a crouch, eyes wide, and scrambled to shove things back into their correct places.

"Great going, dipshit," Bev hissed.

"Shut up, Chucky," he fired back quietly. He knew comparing Beverly to a sentient child-murdering doll would be the icing on the cake. They held their breath for a few more seconds before they heard footsteps coming around the other end of their aisle. Richie's eyes bulged. He grabbed Beverly's hand, dragging her to her feet. "C'mon!" He didn't let go the whole sprint to the door. A lady got mad at them for bumping her shoulder. They ignored her, running right out the door and onto the sidewalk. Richie hooked a hard right, and they didn't stop running until they finally reached the arcade, breathless and cackling, even if Richie's legs were killing him, and his bandages were slipping down.

Despite the laughing, Richie still had only one thing on his mind: Eddie Kaspbrak. His words rang in Richie's head again, and he wondered what they had meant. As he battled Beverly over and over in Street Fighter, losing every time, his brain was focused on the small snippet of Bill and Eddie's conversation they had heard. Who had they been talking about?

Eddie had mentioned a best friend. _Richie_ was his best friend, wasn’t he? Eddie and Bill had been so close the whole time, even holding hands, but then... Eddie had said something about him? That didn't make any sense. Unless he _wasn't_ Eddie's best friend. Were they even best friends? Maybe he was overestimating their friendship.

Beverly shoved him in the shoulder, laughing at him when he lost for the fifth time in a row, her Ryu beating his Dhalsim. Richie groaned, running a hand through his messy curls. He slowly let the raging thoughts die down, his expert Street Fighter mind jumping out. But he made a mental note to try to debunk it again later. Richie was going to have to pull some strings, but he was not finished. For now, he just needed to kick Beverly's ass to remind her _he_ was the Street Fighter god, not her.


	8. Eddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beverly gives out free makeovers to the Losers, but Eddie needs some reassurance.

"Oh my god, is that _gum?_ You better not have gotten that in my hair."

"I didn't! Relax, Rich. Your precious curls are fine."

Eddie watched from a distance as Richie and Beverly bantered, smiling a little. They were funny to watch, really. Being such close friends gave them every excuse to argue a lot. They got on each other's nerves almost as much as he himself and Richie did.

A light frown crossed his lips when a different thought came to mind: Richie hadn't been talking to him as much lately, namely today. It almost seemed as if the raven-haired boy was in _pain_ when he looked at him. Eddie was really beginning to worry he'd done something wrong. He didn't know how to fix it, either, simply because nobody was giving him the chance. Prior to this walk to the quarry, they had been in the clubhouse, mostly goofing off or reading comic books and magazines. Eddie would say something— a quip, a comeback to one of the other Losers, even a private joke to Rich himself— but it was like Richie hardly even reacted. Like something was holding him back. And Eddie didn't know what he'd _done_ , because normally, Richie would be near tears over at least _one_ of Eddie’s jokes. Usually he thought they were funny!

Maybe telling Bill all the shit he had been feeling had given him bad luck. Eddie's closest friend besides Richie was Bill, so they tended to talk a lot whenever Richie was busy. He'd called the raven-haired boy yesterday, pretty early, but Maggie Tozier had picked up and told him Richie was busy. To his disappointment, she hadn't said with what, nor did she say Eddie could help. So it was only natural for Eddie to call up Bill and ask if he was doing anything, and when the answer proved to be no, they'd decided to meet up.

And then it had all happened. They had been walking to McCrory's, and Eddie had asked Bill about liking people, and about what he should _do_ if he liked someone, and it had all poured out. Everything about how Eddie felt about Richie. He didn't know for sure if he _liked_ liked him, really. He didn’t know exactly what liking someone was supposed to feel like. Maybe he didn’t like Richie! Or maybe that was him feeling strange about being gay, because he'd always thought it was weird and kinda gross. And maybe there had been some tears, and maybe Bill had had to pull him over to the side of the road and duck into an alley and beg him to _‘just b-b-breathe, Eddie,’_ and maybe Eddie had nearly sent himself into a full blown panic. Because it wasn’t _normal_ to be this way. At least, his mother had raised him to believe that. 

But Bill told him otherwise. Bill said it was okay. Bill wanted to help him, and Eddie had never been more grateful in his life to have at least one friend who supported him in an area he knew his mother never would 

Admittedly, Bill had had his fair share of teasing Eddie, going as far as to fake a Richie voice to call him Spaghetti Head and slide sunglasses over Eddie’s eyes. When Eddie explained about Richie coming over and then having to hide from Sonia, he showed Bill how Richie had held his hand, and asked Bill what he thought _that_ meant. Then they'd been browsing the shelves, Eddie worrying about how badly he could potentially fuck up his friendship with Richie (and then laughing when some shady couple knocked over a bunch of shit an aisle over). Bill's final verdict?

_'Y-Yeah, Richie t-tuh-totally likes y-you, d-d-dude. But if y-you tell him n-n-now, y-yuh-you might s-scare him off.'_

So Eddie remained deadly silent about the whole thing, even though Bill would now jab him with an elbow or poke him in the shoulder whenever he and Richie so much as looked at each other. Now was not a great time for this, considering the Losers were on their way to the quarry, and Eddie definitely planned on doing a lot of looking.

Speaking of peeking... Eddie's eyes lifted from the gravel to Richie, and he found the taller boy staring at him from across the path. Richie quickly diverted his eyes and then leaned over to mumble something to Beverly, holding a hand over the side of his mouth. Something burned in Eddie's chest. Why couldn't Richie be whispering to _him?_

He glanced to Bill on his left, who was swinging the radio back and forth as he walked. The Losers had overnight bags slung over their shoulders (the plan was to crash at Stan's house after the quarry, since it was the biggest) but Bill had so much packed that the radio didn't fit in his bag. Eddie decided if Richie got to whisper to Beverly all the time, then he got to whisper to Bill. Eddie got up onto his tiptoes, wobbling as he walked. Bill was a little tall to whisper secrets to. Thankfully, the brunet complied, leaning down slightly, and Eddie cupped a hand around his own mouth.

"Did you see him looking at me?"

"Y-Yeah," Bill replied quietly. "W-What's up with y-y-you g-guys, anyway?" Evidently, Bill had also noticed that Richie and Eddie hadn't been talking much all day. _Great_. _So it's not just in my head._ He let out a breath, shaking his head.

"I dunno. I don't know what to do, he's just... not talking to me." Eddie felt tears sting his eyes. _Oh, no. Don't do that shit here._ Quickly, he rubbed at his eyes. Before Bill could say anything, Richie called over to Eddie.

"Hey, Spaghetti Head, who's cuttin' onions?" Richie flashed him a grin. Eddie felt his heart flutter. _Oh, man. He saw that?_ He shot Bill a quick incredulous look— one that said _Oh my god, I was_ just _talking about how he was ignoring me—_ and then crossed the gravel path to where Richie was walking instead.

"Dunno, the lunch lady?" It was a shitty reply, but it made Richie keep grinning, so Eddie didn't mind sounding stupid. He did, however, try to force the smile from his own face. It wasn't natural to be beaming around Richie. He was supposed to be _annoyed_ by Richie. Everyone knew that. If he started smiling suddenly, everyone would know.

"Oh, sureee." Richie slung an arm around his shoulders, and Eddie felt butterflies making a home in his stomach. _Aw, man, not again._ "Mrs. Miley gets all sorts of shit, but she's really talented at slinging mashed potatoes. I mean, come on. You ever seen a single student that ends up getting their potatoes in the wrong section of their lunch tray?”

Eddie shook his head. "Didn't know you had it in you to compliment people, Trashmouth."

"Oh, of course I do." Richie winked down at Eddie, pinching his cheek. "I compliment you all the time, don’t I? How else would I be able to tell you what a cutie patootie you are? Cute, cute, cute,” Richie teased.

Eddie groaned, the only thing that would stop a smile from jumping to his lips. He threw Richie's arm off of his shoulders, huffing. "Stop touching me. You know I hate that, don’t you? I hate when you call me cute. And, and! It's a _million_ degrees! You're gonna sweat all over me— blech, do you know how disgusting that is?” While Eddie was being genuine with his health concerns, his _main_ concern was that if Richie's arm stayed around his shoulders, his face would go pink. Then Bill would have an excuse to tease him for the rest of eternity.

"Almost as disgusting as your mom's underwear." Richie's eyes scanned the group of Losers, and he took a step toward Stanley when he finally found him, lifting a hand. "Ohhh!" Stanley rolled his eyes, grabbing Richie's hand and lowering it. Richie barely reacted, turning toward Eddie again. "Come a little closer, comrade," he teased, faking a terrible Russian accent. Eddie ducked away. _Pretend you hate him._ Actually, Eddie had a better idea.

He could pretend Richie was Bev.

No, that was mean. A bad idea. Beverly hadn't done anything specifically to warrant his disliking. She just... Richie was so close to her all the time! They were always leaning their heads on each other's shoulders and touching and whispering secrets, and Eddie felt so... out of the loop. He thought he was Richie's best friend. He thought he was the one Richie could rant to. But he was wrong. Richie didn’t often tell Eddie anything about how he felt— it was mostly jokes and quips and banter. Clearly, Beverly actually _knew_ what was going on.

Despite his morals, Eddie channeled this pent up anger— no, more like _annoyance_ — and used it in his words to Richie. "Dude, shut the fuck up— I don't wanna hear your Russian spy right now because I _know_ what I'm doing and what I'm doing is avoiding your nasty viruses—"

“But my Russian spy is great, you _love_ my Russian spy! He’s nice! He’ll help you get over your virus, he knows a doctor—” Richie was talking back, but Eddie just kept rambling. Their voices began to overlap, and despite the way Eddie's features were twisted in disgust and the way he was inching away from Richie, he felt so at home here with his bickering; he kept laughing in between. Yeah, maybe Bev saw the serious side of Richie, but Eddie got to have this. He got to have Richie chasing him around, calling him cute alongside all those other dumb nicknames. Secretly, he adored it.

Richie kept on pestering him until they reached the cliff, but Eddie couldn't say he minded. When they finally stripped down to their underwear, the boys leaned over the edge.

"Don't tell me I'm going to have to go first _again_ ," Beverly tutted. 

"Listen, we just need time to... get ready." Mike crossed his arms. He hadn't been there as many times as everyone else, but that certainly didn't stop him from joining in whenever he had the chance.

"Get ready my _ass!"_ Beverly shot the boys a grin and then whooped as her feet carried her over the edge. She flew through the air until her feet made contact with the river, sending water splashing everywhere.

The boys glanced at each other, but Eddie couldn't keep himself from looking to Richie more than once. One of the times, he caught Richie looking, but that also meant Richie caught _him_ looking. The taller boy winked, and Eddie rolled his eyes, glancing away. Inside, he was giddy. His eyes fell on Bill. _'Push him in,'_ the taller brunet mouthed, head jerking in Richie’s direction. Eddie's lips curled up into a smirk. He offered a single nod, retreating behind the rest of the group for a few seconds.

Soon, he was running up behind the curly haired boy, sending him flying. Richie yelped on his way down, and Eddie was delighted to see him crash into the smooth, rippling water of the lake below. "Fuck you, Eds!" his voice called, sounding small from so far away.

"Maybe later!" Eddie laughed, wasting no time in throwing himself off the cliff and joining him in the water down below. As soon as he came up for air, Richie was splashing him in the face, and that was when he knew it was on.

—

"Ooh, I know what we could do," Beverly piped up. The Losers had since made it back to Stan's house. Thankfully, there had been no freak accidents or encounters with psychotic, mentally troubled bullies. None of them were fully dry under their loose fitting summer clothes, though. It was obvious, from the way Beverly's flowy sleeves kept sticking to her arms, or the way Richie's damp curls were still plastered to his forehead. 

The seven kids were sprawled out in various places across Stanley Uris's living room— mostly on the floor or the couch— picking at the remains of the cheap frozen pizza they'd loaded their plates with. The lull in activity was clear because of how much time they had spent swimming, but the energy was still there, lurking under the surface for the perfect time to strike. Eddie glanced to Beverly at her suggestion. "Okay? What is it?" 

"It's my duty to make you guys look pretty." Beverly say up, reaching for her bag. Eddie didn't like the sound of that. Clearly, the other boys weren't sure, either.

"W-What does that m-m-mean?" Bill was asking, lifting his hands. He was sitting right behind Eddie, up on the couch. Eddie watched nervously as Beverly pulled from her bag a smaller bag— _seriously, this girl has way too many bags_ — and grinned.

"It _means_ come _here_ and let me graffiti your faces."

Her words drew a collective groan out of the boys sitting around her. Eddie shook his head. Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. Mike scrunched his own nose. "No offense, Bev, but I don't think you have my shade." The boys laughed, and Bev shook her head, her quiet smile saying enough.

"I could make _something_ work. Lipstick and eyeliner alone works wonders." She drummed her fingers against the bag, unzipping it and dumping its contents onto the table.

Eddie's eyebrows raised slowly. "Holy..." That bag held a lot more than it looked like it did. Tubes of lipstick rolled across the top of the table, and small eyeshadow palettes fell along with them. Eddie could also point out a number of things he didn't even know the use for.

"Those look like medieval torture weapons!" Richie exclaimed. "My face is _not_ a canvas. I'm not letting that shit anywhere near my beautiful features."

"You will." Beverly smiled sweetly at him, clearly conveying something she couldn't say out loud. Her eyes flitted to Eddie, and then to Richie again knowingly. Eddie crossed his arms when Richie seemed to get the message. _Someone tell me what the fuck is going on!_

"I dunno, Bev. That's kinda weird," Mike said from his spot on the floor.

"Well I think it'll be fun," Ben piped up, clearly keen on supporting Bev no matter what. He slid off of the couch, leaving only Bill, Stan, and Mike sitting up there. "Do mine first."

"Wait, wait, wait," Eddie chimed in, lips turning down at the corners. "That's disgusting. You're gonna make us share the same, like... brushes and shit? Lipstick? No way. Anything that touches _their_ crusty faces isn't touching mine."

"Who says _your_ face isn't crusty, Eds?" Richie asked from the other side of the coffee table. 

"Beep beep. My skin is _perfect_ , actually, because I _moisturize_ like an actual smart person—"

"Like a girl."

"—because it's _good_ for you and makes your skin _flawless_ , so actually before you come for me you should be thinking about that." Eddie was talking quickly, like he always did. He glared at Richie, crossing his legs.

"Children, children," Bev laughed, "relax. There's this wonderful thing called Q tips. Stan, you got Q tips, right?"

"Yeah, one sec," the curly-haired boy replied. He had been fairly quiet the whole time, so hearing his voice was a bit startling. "I'll check the closet." He lifted himself from the couch and stepped carefully past Ben and Bev, lanky figure disappearing into the hallway.

Eddie glanced to Bill, noticing the way he watched Stan leave. A grin popped onto Eddie's face and he poked Bill's knee. He reached up, tugging him down by the shirt to whisper in his ear, "I saw that, Big Bill." Bill shoved him away with a snort, blowing a piece of hair out of his eyes, and Eddie turned back around, still grinning, only to be met with Richie's dismal gaze. The messy-haired Trashmouth didn't even seem to realize he was staring. "Richieee," Eddie said, dragging his name out and then reaching across the table to snap his fingers in Richie’s face. "Earth to Rich."

Richie came back alive, eyes wide. "More like Mars to Rich. There's no way _I'm_ human."

"Yeah, you're a stinky alien bastard, probably," Eddie replied.

"Not as stinky as—"

"Beep beep," Stan interrupted, tossing an unopened box of cotton swabs to Beverly before he sat back down between Mike and Bill. Ben was still sitting in front of Beverly, at the right end of the rectangular coffee table. Eddie himself was behind the table, more on the left side. Richie being across from him gave him a perfect excuse to stare at the boy's stupid curls and the back of his stupid head and watch his stupid little fidgets (and then swoon at all of the above).

Beverly finally got to work, first comparing her skin with Ben's (she was the tiniest bit paler) and then covering his face in products based on it. She made little swatches on his hand and then applied it to various places on his face. Eddie could honestly say he didn't understand any of it. But by the end, Ben was turning around, and Eddie's eyes were bulging.

"How did you do that?"

"Do what?" Beverly was grinning from ear to ear. She knew why Eddie was surprised.

"He looks so..." Eddie trailed off, brow creasing. Ben looked _very_ different, to say the least. Eddie could see where it almost looked as if Beverly had made changes to his face. Some parts were a little darker than before, some were shiny, and he had the stuff girls always used to draw circles around their eyes with. His eyelids were all shimmery and dark brown. Eddie knew it was eyeshadow, but he'd never seen it on a boy before. So it was... "Weird."

Ben laughed, flipping his hair out of his eyes. "Thanks, Eddie."

"Not, like, in a _bad_ way... I guess?" Eddie tilted his head. "I mean, you look good." Bill kicked him gently in the back, and Eddie swiveled around, owlish eyes locking on his face. _'What?'_ he mouthed. Bill glanced pointedly to a spot behind Eddie, so the boy turned his head again, hair flying into his eyes. Richie had his chin in his hand, his elbow resting against one of his knees, but he was glaring at Ben as if the boy had snapped his skateboard in half.

Eddie glanced back to Bill, eyes still huge. "Jealous?" he whispered quietly. Bill nodded. Eddie felt butterflies rise in his stomach. He glanced to Richie again and then to Bill, skeptical. "I don't know..."

"Shhh." Bill nudged him, laughing behind his hand, and Eddie rolled his eyes.

"Whatever." He glanced to Beverly, who was working on Mike now. She had set aside the cotton swabs she had used on Ben and she had a whole new set now. Currently, she was doing the same thing she'd done to Ben— outlining the top of Mike's eyes with that black pen.

Eddie considered moving up to sit next to Bill, but now he was talking to Stan, and Eddie had some of his own suspicions. He crossed his legs, watching as Beverly finished up Mike's face. The tranquil boy had been waiting patiently, as he always did. When he turned to face everyone else again, he looked a little different, too. It wasn't as extravagant as Ben's had been, because Bev hadn't been able to coat Mike's face in her foundation. But he looked different, too.

"Ta-da!"

"I have to see this." Mike got to his feet, trotting to the hallway and disappearing into the bathroom to check the mirror. Eddie watched him go, laughing a bit when he returned with a dumbfounded expression. "Huh."

Beverly clapped twice. "Works wonders, doesn't it? Stan, c'mere."

Stanley, of course, hesitated. "I don't know. I mean, I don't—"

"Come onnn, Stan the Man, don't be a pussy," Richie taunted from across the table. He'd apparently gotten over his envious mini-episode from earlier and was now grinning at Stan, egging him on. "You could look hot!"

Stanley rolled his eyes, but after one last fleeting glance at Bill, he reluctantly gave in, sliding off the couch and into the spot in front of Beverly. "Fine. But would you be careful? I don't want—" The rest of his sentence was muffled when Bev covered his mouth with her hand.

"Just shut up and let me do my job," she teased, picking up her tube again. "Now, give me your hand." She was going to compare the shades again. Eddie had watched her routine twice now, and he was beginning to learn how exactly she did it. _Huh. She's really good at that_.

Eddie let his eyes wander first to Richie, whose attention had moved to the box TV in front of them all. He sighed quietly, eyes sweeping over Richie's curls. He could reach out and tug on one. _Or not._ He wasn't ballsy enough. He turned to look at Bill, who was watching Beverly cover Stan's face in products. Eddie tapped on his knee, shooting him a smirk. Bill shook his head once, even though the tips of his ears turned a little pink. Eddie was sure he wasn't imagining it. Stanley's face was finally done being decorated, and when the boy turned around, even Eddie felt a little flustered. _Wow_. She'd really done a good job that time around. Stanley's eyeshadow was bluish greenish and definitely shiny. She'd done his lips, too— a light, sparkly pink— along with adding some color to his cheeks.

Eddie found himself wondering how Richie was going to look when Bev was done with him.

"Who's up next?" the ginger questioned. Eddie pulled on Bill's wrist, tugging him off the couch.

"C'mon, Big Bill. Go experience the magic of the makeup."

"Is it a-a-anything like th-the magic of the p-p-p-paddleball?" Bill quipped, and Eddie batted at him.

"Just go get your face drawn on, dumbass."

Bill laughed, and out of the corner of his eye, Eddie caught Richie staring. He didn't look happy. _Jealous_ , his mind whispered at him again, but he was having a hard time believing it was true. He just couldn't convince himself Richie liked him enough to be jealous of the people he talked to. Why would Richie be jealous? He was hardly talking to Eddie. _Well, no._ At the quarry, and in the river, and even a little bit on the way back to Stan's, they'd talked some more. But now it was back to near radio silence. _I'm losing my mind over here, dude!_

Eddie was zoned out, picking dirt from under his fingernails and thinking quietly, for the duration of the time Bill was getting his makeup done. When Bill stood, Eddie checked to see if Stan was looking. _Aha. Caught you red handed_. There was a little peeking going on. _As there should be._ Now that Bill was invested in Eddie's love life, Eddie decided it was suitable for him to be invested in Bill's. It was only fair. Eddie lifted his eyebrows at the Denbrough boy, and Bill waved him off quietly.

 _Hmm. A blossoming teenage romance._ He didn't say anything out loud, of course. He wasn't going to be a dick and embarrass Bill. Even so, the whole thing was funny— though Eddie worried that he was that obvious with Richie. _Fuck_. He could barely tell how Richie really felt about him ever, so everyone else probably didn't know much, either. But Eddie himself had to be obvious, didn't he? He steeled himself over. _No use getting upset over this. I'm not five._ He could deal with his own assumptions later.

Because right now, Beverly was calling him over.

"C'mere, Eddie, let me do yours." Hesitantly, Eddie scooted across the carpet until he was face to face with her. He let her take his hand and draw a thin line across it with a thick liquid he had come to learn was called 'foundation.' "Hmm. You're definitely darker than me. But I think we can make it work." He watched her unpack a few more different items, and soon, she was pumping more foundation onto a sponge, and her hands were lifting. Alternatively, all Eddie could think about was how they were going to be in his face and touching him and spreading things on his skin.

At the last second, Eddie yanked his head back. "W-Wait." He eyed the sponge warily, lips curling downward. "You have to wash your hands first." At least he hadn’t gotten so worked up that he’d needed to take a puff on his inhaler.

Beverly was a little miffed at first, but she got over it quickly, shooting Eddie a grin. "Okay! We'll just do it in the bathroom, then." She gathered all her supplies into her arms, being careful with the sponge that still had makeup on it, and got to her feet, motioning for Eddie to follow. He cast his nervous gaze one last time to Bill, who gave him nothing more than a quiet thumbs-up.

When he'd followed Beverly into the fairly large bathroom, she shut the door, dumping her bag on the counter. She scrubbed at her hands for a solid fifteen seconds, Eddie watching quietly, and then shut the water off. "Happy?" He nodded, and she picked up the sponge again. "Alright. We're going to make you look pretty."

"Don't say that, it sounds..." Eddie didn't have much experience with the feminine side of things, and he definitely didn't know how he was supposed to react to being called pretty. On one hand... it was a compliment, right? But on the other, it was a compliment for girls. Eddie was a _boy_. 

"Sounds like what?" Beverly dabbed makeup all over his face, blending it further into some places than others. She put more under his eyes, and he worried about his bags for a second.

"I don't know. It's just weird, okay? I don't like it. It’s... girly and shit.” He avoided her gaze. He was trying not to let any hard feelings show. Beverly didn't do anything wrong. _You have no reason to be mad at her._ But he couldn't help it! He felt like she was _stealing_ Richie! “Boys can’t be pretty.”

"Well, if you don't like it, I won't use it," Beverly hummed, “but I’d say there’s no reason to put labels on things. Boys can be pretty, too. Close your eyes." She finished spreading out the foundation, moving on to other strange powders. She dusted his cheeks with something pink and covered his eyelids in glittery purple and blue. All the while, he was contemplating her words. _There’s no reason to put labels on things._ Maybe there wasn’t. Maybe he was overreacting. "Hold still, I'm drawing on more freckles,” she said, and he was brought back to the present.

"You can _do_ that?"

"With makeup, you can do anything." She dotted his cheeks with little splotches of a darker color. "Part your lips for me." He watched, almost mesmerized, as she swabbed a reddish color onto a Q tip and smeared it across his lips. "Rub it in. And close your eyes again; _don't_ move." _Jesus, you’ve sure got a long list of demands._ The pen she was using was cold, and he could feel it running across his eyelid. Bev was outlining his eyes with the same thing she'd used on the other boys. She moved back, inspecting him. "Hmm. Your lashes are a little light. I think you could use some mascara."

"Mascara?" He'd never heard of _that_ before. She pulled a tube out of her bag that he hadn't seen her use on anyone else, unscrewing it to reveal a weird looking brush sort of thing. "Don't move." _Why does she keep saying that?_ He must've been fidgeting a lot. Out of nowhere, she spoke again: “Eddie, do you have a problem with me?”

“What?” His eyes shot open wider. Luckily, it was right after she’d taken the wand away, so he didn’t mess anything up. “What are you talking about?” he asked defensively, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You _do_. I knew it.” Bev screwed the top back onto the mascara bottle and tossed it back into her bag. “What’s up, Eddie?” she asked, and the way she said it so warmly and the soft way she smiled at him when she asked made him feel _so_ bad for acting cold to her. _Oh my god, I’m such a dick._

But he couldn’t let her know she was right, so he kept on lying. “Nothing. You must be seeing things,” he said stiffly.

“Eddie,” Bev sighed, taking his hands. “You never used to act like this to me.”

“Y-Yeah I did,” he muttered, his hands remaining stubbornly limp in hers.

But Bev knew better. “What did I do, Eddie?”

That broke him, because it _wasn’t_ her fault. He felt so stupid for ever treating her like it was. She had nothing to do with Richie’s choices and his personal decisions. It wasn’t her fault. How was Eddie going to explain that he was jealous of her for being best friends with Richie?

“Nothing,” he sighed, eyes falling to the ground. Finally, he let his hands shift in hers to hold them back. “You didn’t even do anything. It’s just, like—” _God, how do I say this without giving myself away?_ He hated admitting his true feelings. It always made him so uncomfortable. His mother never treated him like his concerns and emotions meant anything. It was all _her_ way, _her_ plans, and if he talked back or disagreed, Sonia got mad, because he wasn’t allowed to have a say in it. His opinion wasn’t valid to her. So, to put it simply, he doubted himself. Which made it pretty damn hard for him to finally admit, “Richie’s just been ignoring me. But he always talks to you. And I don’t know what I did.”

“Aww, Eddie.” His eyes shot up to find that hers were sympathetic. Not mad. She wasn’t mad at him. _Phew_. “It’s not you. I promise.”

“Then what...”

“Richie’s... figuring some things out right now.” She smiled. There was definitely something she wasn’t telling him. “But it’s not your fault. He’ll be back to his regular old self soon, okay? Really. It isn’t you, Eddie.”

“If you’re sure.” Eddie let go of her hands, tugging at the strap on his fanny pack. “Um... thanks.”

“You’re welcome. You gonna stop being so mean now?”

Caught red-handed, Eddie blushed. “Yeah. Sorry.”

"It’s fine.” She grinned, clapping her hands together. “Since that’s over, you’re all done! Let me just add one final touch,” she said, reaching for something shiny on the counter. _The medieval torture device._

When she was done using it on his eyelashes— to _curl_ them, she had explained when he asked— and covering them in the black goo, he blinked twice and glanced at his reflection. _Holy shit_. He looked... _overwhelmingly gay._

“You ready to show everyone?”

His mind blanked, and Eddie panicked, reaching for the toilet paper behind him, or maybe the hand towel on the rack. Anything he could use to wipe it off. “Nope, time to take it off—”

“Eddie—”

“They can't see this—"

"Eddie, wait."

"—cause everyone is gonna laugh and—"

"Eddieee."

"—I look like fucking _Pennywise_ , for Pete’s sake, I can't let Richie s—"

"Eds!" Eddie finally clammed up when Beverly used Richie's name for him. She grabbed his wrist, stopping him. “Quit that.” He held his breath, eyes searching her face, and desperately wished she would just let go so he could scrub all the product off of his face. At her request, though, he stayed still, moving only his mouth to protest to one tiny little detail.

"Don't— Don't call me that."

"Fine. But you've _got_ to calm down." Eddie fell uncomfortably silent, reluctant to meet Beverly's eyes. "Nobody else got laughed at. You _don't_ look like a clown. I would never do that to you. You look good!" Eddie shrugged loosely. Beverly let go of his wrist and patted his shoulder. "Come on, hot stuff, go show 'em what you're made of."

Eddie nodded once, squaring his shoulders. _Yeah. I can do this. I’m Eddie Kaspbrak. I can do this_. "Okay.” One last nagging bit of doubt was throwing him off, though. “Are... are you sure? Cause I just think—" He paused, biting his lip. 

Beverly was gentle when she asked, "You just think what?"

"Richie's gonna laugh."

To his surprise, it was Beverly who laughed out loud. "Oh, that's _hilarious_. Whew! Trust me, Eddie, you do _not_ have to worry about that." _The fuck? She_ does _know something I don’t!_

"What are you—"

"Hey, Spaghetti Head! What's taking so long?" Richie's muffled voice called from the living room.

"Nevermind. I'm going." Eddie didn't give Bev a chance to say anything else before he was stepping out of the bathroom, across the hallway, and through the open doorway into the living room. He saw everyone give him a quick once over, and he blinked a few times in rapid succession. His lashes were sticking together at the corners. 

The best part? Beverly had been right. Richie wasn't laughing. He was staring— and he was a little pink (at least, Eddie was _pretty sure_ he wasn't imagining that part). Richie opened and closed his mouth, evidently lost for words, and Eddie felt his heart flutter.

Eddie took his seat again, eyes finding Richie once to offer him a triumphant lopsided smile. _Speechless, Trashmouth?_ He couldn't say _that_ out loud; it was practically a death sentence. Luckily, his smile conveyed more than enough. It felt good to know he had managed to blow the curly haired kid away. Well... It was Beverly’s work, really, but he could get past that part in favor of crediting himself for looking good.

"Richie! Get your ass in here!"

"Watch your mouth, my parents are home," Stan scolded Bev from the couch. Richie was scrambling to his feet, bolting into the bathroom. Eddie heard him rambling to Beverly, and his tone was upbeat, but Eddie himself was too elated to try and eavesdrop. _Richie was staring. At_ me! _He was staring at me!_ A thought struck him, and he turned back to Bill, who was shooting him a smug grin. Bill nodded, and Eddie felt giddy all over again. Now he knew for sure this wasn't all in his head. Letting Beverly decorate his face had been quite possibly the best decision Eddie had ever made.

He soon knew he was wrong. Richie appeared in the doorway, and Eddie realized the best decision ever had been sticking around to wait until Richie got _his_ makeup done. It took Eddie's breath away. He tried to avert his gaze, but he couldn't stop looking. Richie was captivating. He was sporting a wildly colorful look, his eyes covered in fiery reds, oranges, and yellows. His lipstick was a loud shade of red, and Eddie could see Beverly had used the same mascara on Richie that she'd used on him. The only difference between them was that it looked fifty times better on the Tozier boy.

"How do I look, ladies?" Richie snorted, opening his arms. _Like you just walked off the cover of a Vogue magazine_ , Eddie wished he could blurt, but instead, he had to settle for forcing his eyes back to Bill.

"C-C-Close your m-mouth, s-stupid," Bill hissed, and Eddie realized his jaw had dropped. _Oh my fucking god. I look like I'm trying to catch flies_. He quickly snapped his teeth together again. _Jesus Christ, that's so embarrassing._ He really hoped Richie hadn't seen _that_. After all, Eddie always felt like he had to impress Richie. The raven-haired boy had a certain spunk Eddie felt he needed to match. He was loud. He was bold.

He was gorgeous.

Eddie cleared his throat. He had to say something— the room was nearly silent aside from the rambling coming from the television. _The TV. That's my way out._ Carefully, he drew in a breath and then spoke: "Hey, fuckface, sit down and get out of the way. I can't see the TV."


	9. Richie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First, there is ice cream. Second, there is The Twilight Zone. Third, there is a magical summer bonfire that, in Richie’s opinion, is way overrated.

"Natural selection is coming for you, jackass," Eddie huffed out, dutifully throwing out an elbow that landed in its desired spot: right against Richie's ribs. _Ouch_ , the taller boy thought at first, but then the quick bout of pain was over, and he was still grinning ear to ear.

"Don’t lie. Natural selection _loves_ me. How else would I have made it this far?"

"Pure luck."

"Lies. I'm the epitome—"

"You have _really_ got to stop using the word epitome. Like, seriously, do you _know_ any other fucking words?" Eddie scoffed, tossing his head to the side to get his hair out of his eyes. He descended on his ice cream cone for what had to be the millionth time, smoothing the top of it out with his tongue. Richie's eyes remained transfixed on the sight for a few more seconds before he managed to pull himself out of his reverie.

"I know a few words other than epitome. Like, uhh... blasphemy." Richie only vaguely knew the definition of the word, knowing it just to be something that tied into religion, but it sounded fancy enough to use in this context. The other boy only laughed, shaking his head. Tentatively, Eddie’s teeth broke the edge of the waffle cone surrounding the chocolate ice cream. _He treats it like it’s gonna crumble in his hands if he’s not careful enough._

"You don't even know what that means, do you?" he said around a mouthful of food.

"Nope." Richie grinned, bringing his own ice cream to his mouth. He wasn't careful or meticulous like Eddie; his vanilla ice cream was dripping down the sides of his cone thanks to the hot afternoon sun, dangerously close to coating Richie's pale fingers in a sugary mess. There were teeth marks left over in the ice cream, too. To counter Richie's careless manner, Eddie clearly couldn't stand his own cone being imperfect. There wasn't a drip to be seen on the chocolate cone in the shorter boy's hand. "That's the fun of it," said Richie, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Eddie winced. "Who needs to know the meaning? You can just say it whenever and it sounds cool. My dog ate a blasphemy sandwich the other day."

Eddie shook his head disapprovingly, eyeing Richie's messy cone. "First of all, you don't _have_ a dog. Second of all, you're crazy. And thirdly, you sound like a fucking idiot."

"I sound _philosophical_ —"

"Shut the fuck up." 

"Make me." Richie winked. Eddie hit him in the face.

"That's what your _mom_ said to me last night," Eddie grumbled, jabbing him in the chest with an index finger.

"Hey-oh! Eddie gets off a _good_ one!" Richie cheered, watching the boy fight back a smile. _Hell yeah. Richie Tozier: making Doctor K smile since 1976_. "Hey, did you know there's a soda called Dr. K?"

Eddie was groaning already. "Richie, no."

"Richie _yes_! I'm not kidding. You should try it sometime, it's just like Dr. Pepper but cheaper." Richie checked his hand for ice cream, wiped it on his shirt one more time just to be sure, and then ran it through his messy curls. His hair was the one thing he dared to be tedious about. He didn't want anything touching it. It was his one redeeming quality! _God knows my trashy mouth does nothing for my romantic appeal._ But he didn't need to be thinking much about that yet. He was fourteen; the only romance he could have in his life were little kid love stories, holding hands under lunch tables and sharing clothes. It couldn't be anything important until he was older. That was, at least, what he was led to believe. What everyone his age was led to believe. Meaningful connections were saved for mature kids— everyone knew that. And one could hardly call Richie Tozier _mature_.

Eddie was blabbering about something— probably how unhealthy soda was, if he had to guess— but Richie, for once, wasn't listening. He reached across Eddie's chest as they walked. "Lemme try your ice cream."

"What? No." Eddie yanked back, and, consequently, Richie could tell he already had a million reasons prepared as to explain why that was a bad idea. "Why? You know what chocolate tastes like. Not to mention that's fucking disgusting, I don't want your mouth touching the same spot mine did, that— that's so gross. No, you're not— that's how _diseases_ spread, Rich," he argued, his free hand cutting through the air with his words and then pushing Richie's chest. "I _just_ got over something—"

"It's been, like, at least a week. Probably more."

"I don't wanna hear it!"

"Aww, come on. Learn to live dangerously."

"No." Obviously, Eddie was putting his foot down. Richie found it adorable.

"I'll swish hand sanitizer in my mouth. God, that would be so gross," Richie laughed. Eddie was rolling his eyes hard, but Richie could see the smile threatening to peek out. "I mean, honestly? Probably tastes the same as licking a dirty bathroom stall wall would."

"Ewww! What the fuck!"

"I bet it would taste the _exact_ same," Richie insisted, taking a crunchy bite out of his own waffle cone. Inexplicably, he found himself wondering how Eddie's lips tasted. The thoughts felt disgusting and unclean. The one time he was worried about sanitation, it was the imaginary mental kind. _Go figure_. He banished the idea, instead focusing in on Eddie's voice again. The small boy was ranting about how disgusting Richie was, how gross that sentence was, and _'do you even know the implications you just provided? You act like you've tasted a fucking bathroom wall, and ew, that's so fucking disgusting, man. I_ really _hope you're kidding.'_

Richie couldn't help but laugh. Before Eddie could say no, he reached over, snatched the boy's ice cream cone, and treated himself to a taste of the soft serve. Eddie gasped as the cone was returned to his hand. Richie offered a chocolatey grin, ice cream coating his lips. He licked it off and winked again, surprised Eddie hadn't been thrown into a rage-fueled angry health nut rant by now.

"You bitch," he hissed. Richie wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it certainly hadn't been for Eddie's hand to come shooting out toward him. His vanilla cone was being taken from his hands, and Eddie was dancing away so Richie couldn't reach him. A wicked grin laced his lips, and he took his time while Richie gaped, taking a big heaping bite of the vanilla ice cream piled atop Richie's cone.

Eddie walked back over delightedly, quite obviously pleased with himself. He handed the cone back to the still-shocked Tozier and began walking again. When Richie didn't follow immediately, Eddie turned back, raising an eyebrow. "Dude, c'mon," he beckoned, "we're gonna be late." The TV show they were going back to Richie's place to watch aired _once_ that day. They only had roughly ten minutes to get there before it would start. "Ow," the brunet muttered afterwards, "brain freeze."

Richie shook himself out of his stupor, catching up with Eddie, who was still clearly proud of his feat. He glanced down to the vanilla ice cream cone and felt a strange aversion to eating off of the same part Eddie had. He wasn't sure if it was out of respect for Eddie's hypochondria or if it was because he felt fluttery when he thought of, as the other had so gracefully put it, putting his mouth on the same spot Eddie's had been on. Regardless, he let the ice cream melt for a few more minutes, not touching it. He only began to pick at it again when Eddie nudged him and pointed out that it was getting all over his hand, and _'dude, stop letting it drip like that, it is_ so _gross watching you hold it, it's such a mess, you should really take one of these wipes.'_

—

The phone call came in the middle of the episode. Naturally, both boys ignored it— Richie especially. They were perched on the edge of the couch, wide eyes locked on the screen in front of them, the TV that they often insisted played The Twilight Zone better than any other. Another horrific image flashed in front of their faces, and Eddie cringed. "Ew, oh my god, _ew_ ," he mumbled, turning his head away from the screen. They both knew it was just special effects creating the scenes in front of them, but that knowledge was trampled by personal experience. Stan's torn and bloodied face came to mind, and Richie wished he could put the show on pause.

Richie quickly came to realize two things. One: Eddie's face was buried in his shoulder, his cold fingers hooked around Richie's otherwise warm arm. Two: the phone was ringing again. Richie sighed, looking reluctantly to his left, where the ringing came from the hall. He didn't want to get up, not while Eddie was clinging ferociously to his right arm and the episode was still only three fourths of the way through playing out. But Maggie had warned him to answer every call— some of them were going to be important, and he was probably going to need to write things down. He was supposed to be responsible now. Though it was laughable calling Richie the responsible one— in his own opinion, at least— he was an only child, almost in high school, and he could manage the house himself now. The thing was, he _wasn't_ by himself. He was with Eddie. And they were busy.

The phone rang on.

He didn't make any move to stop it until it started ringing for the fourth time. "Jesus Christ!" exclaimed Richie, frustrated. He felt Eddie jump against him. _Whoops, I must’ve scared him_. “Fine, yeesh, I'm _coming_." Reluctantly, he removed his arm from Eddie's grip and stood, leaving the shorter boy to cower on the couch by himself. He shot to the hall as fast as his feet could carry him, yanking the phone up from the receiver, and _really_ hoped this call was important. Otherwise he feared he might blow a fuse. "Hel- _lo_?" asked Richie, sure his voice was taking on an irritated tone already. _Good_. He'd like them to know he was halfway to furious by now. 

"Richie! Jeez, where've you _been_?" Bev's voice answered, and though he was frustrated, it calmed him slightly to hear her soft articulation. "I've been calling you for—"

"Busy. With Eddie." He had half a mind to slam the phone hack into the receiver right then, but this was Beverly, and though he hadn't known her as long as some of the other Losers, she was still one of his closest friends out of the bunch. He didn't want to hurt her feelings when he'd had his hurt enough to know how shitty it was. "What do you need?"

"Ohhhh. _I_ see." Beverly's voice took on a teasing lilt, but Richie was too focused on getting back to the couch to have time for this. "So you're with your—"

"Listen, Bevvie, we're in the _middle_ of _Twilight Zone,_ and I'm _missing_ the _good part_ , so what d'you _want_?" he asked again, forcing emphasis on certain words to get his point across. _I'm busy. I'm hanging out with Eddie. I_ told _you that._ He wanted as much Eddie time as he could get before Sonia stole him away and chained him down again. Of course, he wasn't bad at sneaking in through Eddie's window. But scaling the siding was difficult, especially since it was getting a little old and unreliable, and Richie was only getting bigger and heavier. Nowadays it was probably better to sit on someone's shoulders to reach the window should he need to. He'd only done it once, and he, honest to God, had no idea how Stanley had let Richie sit on his shoulders for so long, blabbering to and bickering with the infamous Eddie Kaspbrak himself.

Beverly was finally speaking again, and Richie listened even though it wasn't nearly fast enough for the antsy Tozier boy. "Right, right, sorry. Look, there's this huge summer kickoff bonfire that they're doing a few miles outside of town, and—"

"You want us there?"

"Yeah!"

"Bev, we're dead meat if we show our faces around there." Richie shook his head, fingers drumming against his thigh. He didn't have time to explain this. _She should know this._ "Our whole shtick is that we're the _Losers_. We can't just—"

"No, Rich, this'll be different. No one will even give us a second glance," Beverly cut him off, her voice speeding up with every word, as if she could sense the growing impatience in Richie. It didn't help; it just made him think of Eddie and his ridiculously fast ranting, which, in turn, made him even more eager to get back to the couch. "People aren't gonna know us. There are people who come out from _Bangor_ for this shit! It's not hosted by some random kids from the high school, it's hosted by the city—"

"Fine, fine," he interrupted, as he had a terrible habit of doing. "Gimme a time and a place. We can meet before." He didn't bother asking who else was coming. He'd find out later, when they all met up. All that was important to him was that Eddie was going.

"Seven thirty, in front of the Aladdin?"

"Perfect. Bye."

Her small voice yelling from the speaker was stopping him before he could hang up. "Wait!" Seething, Richie brought the phone back to his ear.

"What?"

"Jeez, you don't have to be so short with—"

"Beverly."

"...Yeah?"

" _What_ do you need?"

"Are you sure Eddie can—"

"Yes, I'm sure." And with that, he shoved the phone back into its place, sprinting for the couch again. He hit it like a rocket, yanking the blanket over his legs. Eddie looked less terrified than earlier, eyes still glued to the screen. Regrettably, the smaller boy didn't come near him again. Richie's right arm remained cold and lonely without Eddie hanging on it.

"Who was it?" Eddie asked, not looking away from the TV, and for a moment, Richie let himself think about all the feelings he had for Eddie. As soon as that moment had come to an end, he snatched up the emotions and locked them deep into a box in his heart, convincing himself that he was never, _never_ going to let them out.

_Not today, at least._

"Your mom." He flashed a smirk, though Eddie was wholly unimpressed.

"Uh _huh_ ," he drawled. Richie could practically see him fighting back the urge to roll his eyes. He failed, rolled them anyway. "Was she calling to tell you she gave you hepatitis B?"

"Chlamydia, actually." Richie grinned with his teeth this time. Eddie finally met his eyes, nudging him with a shoulder.

"Okay, now, who was it really?"

"Bev," Richie hummed, gaze latching onto the show again. He'd be damned if he were going to let himself miss the final moments. "Called about a bonfire thing she wants to go to tonight."

"Oh." Eddie fell silent for a few moments and then tilted his head. "Are you gonna go?"

"Probably." Why wouldn't he? Beverly had insisted that nobody was going to be there to beat his ass, and though he was still walking on eggshells thanks to their last encounter with Bowers— who they hadn't run into in a suspiciously long time— he wanted to be there, if only to make Beverly happy (and maybe to snatch some food).

"Oh." Eddie's voice sounded so flat, so _disappointed_ , that Richie tore his eyes from the screen to find Eddie's instead.

"What's wrong?"

"I thought—" The small brunet broke off, hesitating again.

Richie nudged him with an elbow, unbelievably curious. "C'mon, Dr. K. Make your diagnosis. What's eating ya?"

"Your sister."

"Eds gets off a good one."

"Don't call me Eds," said Eddie. Richie opened his mouth to counter again, but he soon found a hand clamped against his lips. _Wow, Eddie, didn't know you were into that,_ was what he would be saying if he could get around the hand keeping him quiet. Soon, though, Eddie was talking, and Richie's eyes, through his Coke bottle lenses, were captured first by his lips and then by his eyes. _Eddie Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak. What a fucking sight._ And then that same Eddie Kaspbrak was removing the hand and asking him, "Are you even listening?"

_Oops._

"What? Sorry. Yeah. What?" he sputtered, cheeks turning just the slightest shade darker. The exasperated Kaspbrak boy rolled his eyes for what had to be the millionth time that day. "Your eyes are gonna get stuck like that someday," Richie cracked.

"Shut up. I said—" He paused, stalling. Opened and closed his mouth. Richie would have been a little concerned if he wasn't too busy being embarrassed. "I said," continued Eddie, much quieter, "I thought we were going to hang out for the rest of today."

Richie blinked once. Twice. Where had the miscommunication been? What was Eddie not understanding? "No, Eds, you're coming _with_ me."

Just like that, the shorter boy lit up again. "I am?"

"Yeah, _duh_. Since when would I go anywhere without the love of my life...'s son?" He laughed when Eddie batted at him.

"Beep beep, asshole." But he seemed so pleased, and Richie couldn't help taking Eddie's hand and trapping it against his chest.

"Oh, Eddie, my love, won't you come to the bonfire with me?"

Eddie hit him with a throw pillow.

—

The aforementioned bonfire wasn't quite what Richie had been expecting. It was safe to say he hadn't been to many parties, sure, but he at least knew enough to have a rough idea of what to expect. This did not meet the criteria. His eyes scanned the sight in front of them as he set his weary bike alongside the others. Stan and Mike couldn't make it, and Richie caught himself half wishing he hadn't bothered to show up. What was the point if he couldn't pester Stan the whole time? But he got to be here with Eddie and Bev, and that was good in and of itself.

Richie didn't like to consider himself much of a sap, but he had to admit, the place was almost magical. The large clearing they were in was lit up by the huge campfire in the middle, and music was playing just faintly enough to get lost under conversation. Though it was summer, the nights got cold in Derry, and the fire definitely helped with the chilly evening air. He breathed in, glancing up and watching for a few seconds as the sun began to set.

Eddie nudged him, shot him a questioning look. Richie brushed it off with a minute shake of his head. _Nothing to see here._ And there really wasn't. All it was was Richie being a little too sentimental about some flames and an evening breeze. He cracked a grin, nudging Eddie back and then pointing to some random spot in the sky. "Hey, look!"

Eddie tilted his head up. There was nothing there but the sunset. Richie took the chance, thrilled that Eddie had fallen for it, and dragged a finger up the front of his neck. Eddie quickly snapped his head back down, yanking back. His face gained a pink hue, and Richie grinned triumphantly. "Gotcha."

"Whatever." If he looked close enough, Richie could see goosebumps rising on Eddie's arms. _Mission accomplished._

"Would you two stop _flirting_ and come on?" Beverly laughed, shoving Richie in the shoulder as she walked past them. His stomach buzzed with butterflies. _Please, for the love of God_ _, Bev, shut up._ She wasn’t making things any easier on his heart by accusing the two of flirting.

"It's not flirting, it's called Richie is an asshole and he thinks it’s funny to— Hey! Wait!" Bev was ignoring Eddie, opting instead to be the first to actually step into the middle of the party. She didn't reply, dodging and weaving between kids whose ages ranged from their own age to college kids. Ben trailed after Bev, naturally, and Bill followed suit. Richie took this chance and snuck one last glance at Eddie, who looked a little nervous, before the two of them set off after Bev, too.

"You think Bowers is gonna be here?" Eddie asked quietly. Richie gave him a look, shaking his head, and his dark curls bounced.

"No way. Nobody likes him, not even kids his age."

"This isn't an invitation type of party, Richie. People just show up." Eddie crossed his arms. Richie did the same, without really thinking. "He could just crash it."

"He won't." Though Eddie didn't look convinced in the slightest, Richie shot him a grin. "Come on, Spaghetti Head—"

"Don't call me that in public."

"—lighten up! I wouldn't be here if I thought those shitbags were coming. It's a party. We're here to have fun. Live a little!" His eyes fell on a lightning bug and lit up. "Eddie, look."

"No way. I'm not falling for that again."

"No, Eds, really." Richie took off after the firefly, leaving Eddie to catch up. He reached up and clapped his hands together. When he lowered them, cracking them open very slightly to check for the bug, he could see it crawling across his palm, lighting up furiously. He swiveled around and bumped into Eddie, who looked annoyed, but the expression dissolved when the smaller boy saw Richie's face.

"Did you get him?"

"Uh huh." Richie leaned in close, opening his hands a sliver to show Eddie just like he himself had peeked. It was too much— the firefly beat its wings and then took off, escaping from between Richie's hands. "Damnit!"

"You can catch more later. Come on, Bev is waving at you."

"At _us._ " He wasn't sure if Eddie had a problem with Bev or not, but the fiesty brunet always seemed to act like Bev only cared about Richie. It wasn't true. She loved all of them, and Richie knew that. He couldn't understand why Eddie didn't. "Come on, I think there's a snack table, and I really want to see if Bev found s'mores."

Eddie shook his head, hooking a thumb over to his right, where a different table stood with a bowl of punch and cans of soda. "I'll just get us Cokes."

"Oh? I thought that was _unhealthy_ , Dr. K," Richie teased, and Eddie rolled his eyes. _Damn, will he ever stop doing that?_ Richie was thinking. He hoped the answer was no.

"It's just like you said. I'm living a little." He offered a coy grin, knowing he'd won. With that, he was disappearing between the crowd again, and Richie was alone, smiling after him.

"Richie!"

"Yeah, sorry!" he called back to Bev, trotting over to her and the other Losers present. She shot him a quick look, one that said _'Why would you leave me alone in this crowd of horny and/or prepubescent teenagers,'_ and Richie had a hard time stifling the laugh he wanted to let escape. "What's up? You find anything good?"

"Yeah. S'mores. Duh!" She took a bite out of her gooey, chocolatey mess on graham crackers. "There's lemonade, too. I finished mine already." She held up an empty cup and glanced to Bill and Ben, who were busy in the midst of a heated debate about some stupid shit like fishing, thankfully. "Where'd your little boy-crush go?"

Richie's eyes widened slightly, his gaze darting to the other two. They carried on, blissfully unaware, and Richie let out a breath, whacking Bev in the side of the head. "Don't _do_ that." She simply laughed it off, and Richie blew a piece of hair out of his eyes. "He's getting me a soda."

"Oh... is he?" Bev asked, her gaze shifting pointedly to a spot behind him. Richie whirled around, his stomach dropping already. He stood on his tiptoes, catching sight of Eddie laughing and rubbing the back of his neck. Richie leaned a little further to his right, waited for a giggling blonde to get out of his line of sight, and then found who Eddie was talking to— some random girl, a brunette with hair nearly as dark as Richie's. She was tall and had to be at least a sophomore, maybe a junior, and she was leaning a little closer, inspecting a can of soda. She said something and they both laughed again, this time harder. Eddie was nodding. Richie felt like shit. 

The curly-haired boy turned back around slowly, meeting Beverly's eyes. "No," the ginger said firmly, shoving the rest of her treat in her mouth and handing her empty cup off to Ben, who took it without much question. "Do _not_ give me that look. That's not the kind of attitude we need to have right now." It was hard to listen when Richie knew Eddie was behind him. He wanted to watch the smaller boy's every move. Wanted to make sure he and the girl weren't going to do anything weird. Like... _kiss_ , or something. Bev set her hands on his shoulders, and he was brought back to earth. "I know you can do this, Rich. Just because some girl is talking to him doesn't mean..." She trailed off, glancing over Richie's shoulders again.

"What?"

"Rich. Richie, turn around," she said, swiveling his shoulders around for him. He stumbled, grabbing her arm for balance. He was pretty sure Ben was asking questions in the background, and Bev may have been answering them, but Richie was no longer a part of that conversation. Now he was zooming in, staring at the girl, who had Eddie trapped against the table. Her hand was taking his, but Eddie didn't look like he was enjoying it. No, Eddie's eyes held that certain terrified glint Richie had unfortunately come to recognize. Over the girl's shoulder, the smaller boy's doe-like eyes caught Richie's, and that was when he was finally spurred into action, starting his walk over with a stony gaze.

That was his best friend. That was his Spaghetti Head. Richie was the one who was always there for him, not this girl. He'd never even seen this girl before, and, from the looks of it, neither had Eddie. The girl's hand made contact with Eddie's waist, and when he shook his head, Richie felt fire spreading in his stomach. That was _his_ Eddie. _That fucking bastard has no right._ Eddie didn't say anything, making no noise other than a meek whimper when Richie was close enough for him to hear. Though the boy's mouth remained closed, Eddie wrenched his wrist out of the girl's grip and reached for Richie.

Richie tapped the girl's shoulder. She spun around, eyes sharp. "What the fuck do _you_ want?"

Richie's fist flew into her face.


	10. Eddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie needs help cleaning up after the fight at the bonfire. Eddie, obviously, doesn’t mind pitching in.

"Hold still." Eddie dabbed the antiseptic wipe against the very top of Richie's forehead, cleaning up the blood that had dried along his hairline. "Jesus," he mumbled, shaking his head. "How did you not get this when you were in the shower?"

"Ow!"

"I told you earlier that it was gonna sting, idiot." Eddie may have been harsh with Richie, but he was infinitely grateful. Only two hours or so earlier, Richie had been exchanging blows with a girl who had tried to pin Eddie up and... well, she'd obviously fought back hard. _So much for the no-hitting-girls rule._ Although, he supposed Richie got a pass, since this girl was a specific type of asshole.

The fight was a little blurry in Eddie's mind. He remembered being trapped by a girl he didn't know, and he remembered the look on Richie's face. The unbridled fury in his eyes. He remembered Richie taking the first swing, and he remembered backpedaling into the three other Losers, letting them catch him when he stumbled. He had watched, frozen, from the sidelines as Richie and the girl fought. For a guy who had fallen from a single punch to the face from Stuttering Bill just a year ago (of course Eddie had heard about it afterwards), Richie sure had gotten better at fighting. His form was better, and so, apparently, were his hits.

Eddie had stared, petrified, at the two as the fight went on, allowing Bill to hold his elbow and Ben's hand to steady him by the shoulder while Bev had finally intervened to try and break up the fight. He hadn’t been able to move, couldn't even think about it. He had known he couldn’t stop them. How had he ever attacked Bowers’ gang? Richie had been in the same kind of danger at the bonfire that he’d been in at the kissing bridge, and Eddie hadn’t been moving a muscle. Instead, his fingernails had dug into Bill's arm, and his feet had dug into the ground. Now Richie was paying the price for Eddie's inability to act, whether it had been to push the girl off himself or jump into the fight back when it was happening.

He was brought back to the present when the banged-up Richie started fidgeting again. "Rich, you have got to stop moving," Eddie ordered. It was pretty hard to tend to someone's wounds when they wouldn't quit wiggling. The bathroom was still hot from when Richie had showered just ten or fifteen minutes ago; the walls dripped with condensation that had gathered. Richie's skin itself wasn't wet, but his hair was still dripping, so he had a towel draped around his shoulders in an effort to keep his shirt mostly dry.

"You're not my _mom_ , Eds," the taller boy grumbled.

"No, but I'm fucking her."

Richie didn't laugh, didn't smile, didn't even offer so much as his usual ‘ _Hey-oh! Eddie gets off a good one!’_ and Eddie found himself missing the familiar phrase.

The raven-haired boy was perched atop Stanley's bathroom counter, and Eddie was standing in front of him, wiping his face down and checking him for injuries that he'd neglected to take care of while showering. Richie's knuckles were bruised, and so was the rest of him, really. He had gotten some good hits in before Beverly had dragged him away, but Eddie was just glad he'd gotten out of the fight. He felt insanely guilty knowing Richie was so battered all because of him. "You gonna be done soon?" the grumpy boy asked, arms crossed over his chest. Eddie's stomach stirred with anxiety.

"Almost," he replied quietly, "and then we can go back to movie night. Promise." Movie night was hosted primarily at Stan's place— they tended to crash there a lot, mostly considering he had a nice TV and enough space (barely) for everyone. Stan hadn't been allowed to come out to the bonfire, but he _had_ been allowed to have his friends over afterward. (The Losers feared they'd never understand the rules of the Uris family.) The only person they were missing now was the quiet and reasonable Mike. It kind of sucked without everyone there, but Eddie had to admit that he was more focused on the Tozier boy, anyway.

"You know that's not what I'm worried about," Richie muttered. Eddie glanced to the side, trying to hide the fact that no, he did not know that wasn't what Richie was worried about.

"Then... what are you so pissy for, huh?" While he tried to act aloof, Eddie had to admit he hated to see Richie upset. If Richie wasn't happy, it was like Eddie couldn't be happy, either. There was a mental block there. Eddie couldn't understand why it worked that way, so he didn't try to anymore, knowing it would just tire him out. "You won. Basically."

"Finally, someone accepts the truth." Richie flashed a brief grin, and in that short moment, Eddie smiled back. _I do care about you, you know_. It was over soon, and Richie was pursing his lips. "You're the one who almost got in big trouble."

 _Is that really what he's all worked up over?_ Eddie shook his head. "Almost. You actually _did_ get fucked up. You should be worrying about yourself, Richie." He crossed his arms, temporarily halting in dressing Richie's wounds. "That's the second fight in less than a week. You gotta slow down." Guilt still lingered from the last time Richie had thrown himself into danger to protect Eddie. He'd nearly cried when hearing the reason Richie had been tortured— so that the older boys didn't find out Eddie had made the drawing.

"You worry about me enough for the both of us." Richie was grabbing his elbows, pulling Eddie out of his pitiful thoughts, and he let it happen, his eyes falling to the floor. "Eddie, talk to me. You have to use your words, you know."

"Bold, coming from the guy who punched a girl in the face without saying a single thing to her."

"Come on! I'm not joking."

"That's a first." It was like Richie and Eddie had switched places; usually, Richie was the one dodging serious conversation. Now, though, Eddie was trying to dance around the topic, and it wasn't working. Richie's warm hands moved to hold either side of his face, and Eddie felt his cheeks grow a little hotter. Damn it. He reluctantly met Richie's eyes. "What do you even want me to say?"

"Are you okay?"

Eddie sucked in a breath, pressing his lips together. He threw the antiseptic wipe back onto the counter and leaned back to escape from Richie's grasp. "No! No, I'm not okay, Rich, I'm _not!_ " He began to pace, feeling the familiar ache in the back of his throat that warned him tears were on their way. _Fuck_. Why did he always have to be the one crying? He felt like he was bursting into tears every ten seconds. Richie had to be way over it by now. Why did he even want to hang out with a crybaby?

"It was fucking scary, okay?" He didn't want to look Richie in the eyes anymore, so he avoided them, keeping his head down. "It was. I was scared. Is that what you want to hear? I was _scared_. Because I looked at the girl and I saw— I kept seeing—" He cut himself off, feeling his breathing accelerate. _I need my fucking inhaler._ And he _really_ needed to stop letting himself think about Pennywise.

He reached instinctively for his fanny pack, yanking the zipper open so he could dig around for his inhaler. He was a little relieved that Richie didn't interrupt him while he took a puff of the medicine and counted in his head, trying to calm himself down. As he stuffed the aspirator back into the small bag, he dared to look at Richie again, and he was shocked to find the boy still listening intently, wide chocolate eyes seeming to hang on every word.

Slowly, Richie tilted his head forward. "All done?" he asked quietly. Eddie nodded. Richie lifted a hand— an offering. The two didn't exchange any other words; Eddie merely came back to the other's arms, his cheek resting against Richie's chest. The taller boy's arms circled around Eddie's shoulders and head, and Eddie clung to his slightly damp torso, eyes fluttering closed. And then they stayed like that. Two boys, hugging in the bathroom. Because that was normal.

Usually these days, Eddie would be freaking out at this point. _Oh my god, I'm hugging Richie Tozier_ , he would be thinking. And it wasn't like he'd never hugged Richie before. It was quite common, really, for them to offer casual hugs to each other. In fact, it had been a thing for years; all of the Losers did it. It just felt so much different now that Eddie was facing all these _fairy feelings_ he had.

Even so, right now was natural. For a second, everything felt normal again. He was a kid in Derry. Basically a child, even if he wouldn't let anyone call him that. And this was Richie. The same Richie that he had known since the first grade. When he wasn't spazzing out about his strangely fluttery feelings, hugging Richie was normal, and common, and comfortable. That was exactly how it was right then. Eddie waited until his eyes were dry and his throat didn't ache, and until he no longer felt like he was going to start sobbing without warning.

He opened his mouth to speak, still clinging to Richie, but the other was faster. "I should've been there," the boy on the counter murmured after the few moments of silence. Eddie could practically feel his heart breaking. _It's not your fault, Richie. It'll never be your fault._ He had to tell him that.

"Richie, you—"

"I should've been with you. I'm sorry."

"Richie." Eddie pulled back, removing his hands from around the boy to set them on Richie's shoulders. The taller boy avoided his eyes, lifting his glasses to set them on top of his head instead. So Eddie tried again. "Rich. Look at me." A tactic he used very often. "It's _not_ your fault." Finally, the words he'd been trying to get out for the past ten minutes— the past three hours. " _You're_ the one who came to save _me_."

Richie took a shaky breath, and right when Eddie thought he was going to break down, the boy surprised him yet again. "Like your knight in shining armor."

With a brief laugh, Eddie lifted one of his hands and then brought it back down again to hit it into Richie's shoulder. "Yeah. Exactly."

"Oh my god."

"What?" Eddie realized his mistake too late. "No, hey, wait. Listen, I didn't—"

"You just admitted it. I'm your knight!"

"That's not what I said—"

"That's exactly what you said!" Richie beamed at him, and even though Eddie was exasperated, he couldn't help the butterflies in his stomach from fluttering around like crazy. _Damn, not this again._

"If you're my knight because of tonight, then I get to be your knight because of the last time." The time when he had walked up and boldly swung a piece of piping— probably the sad remains of somebody's dug-up plumbing system after a renovation— right into a taller, older, and much scarier boy's head. He still didn't know how he'd pulled that one off.

It hadn't come easy. In truth, Eddie and Bill had been hiding in the bushes for much longer than Eddie would've liked to admit. Just watching. Waiting. After all, Eddie wasn't brave without Richie, and in that case, Richie had been the one in trouble. It had been hard to get himself to move, but then they'd started cutting Richie up, damaging his perfect ivory skin, and the screams became too much to bear. And that was when he had finally done something.

He wasn't proud of how long it had taken.

"Fine. It's a deal." Richie smirked, and Eddie couldn't help rolling his eyes. Maybe they _were_ going to get stuck like that sometime, like Richie was always saying.

"I guess it is," huffed Eddie, reaching up to pull Richie's glasses back down over his eyes. He leaned forward, forgetting for a moment that he'd just hugged Richie a few seconds ago. He quickly abandoned the action, feeling the tips of his ears grow hot. Now that he thought of the last fight, he needed to check Richie's legs, anyway. "Now, let me—"

"No way, Dr. K. I'm all done." Richie moved to hop down from the counter, but Eddie cornered him. The raven-haired boy's eyebrows raised slightly. "Oh?"

" _I'm_ not finished." Eddie pushed him back gently, leaning down. Richie had changed into clothes stolen from Stanley, and the sandy-haired boy's Champion sweatpants were a little long even on Richie, the giant. Eddie marveled as he rolled them back up and over Richie's calves. "Is Stan seriously taller than you?"

"Yes, he _seriously_ is. Stan the Man is a monster. I'd fear him if I were you," said Richie. "Do we really have to do this right now?"

"There is no better time." Eddie pulled up one of the pant legs carefully until the upper edges of the bandages were visible. Once they were, Eddie saw why Richie was so reluctant for him to see them. The edges were ripped slightly in some places, curling down in others. Eddie's gaze shot up, and he put his hands on his hips, lifting his head to meet Richie's eyes. The bandages were meant to be waterproof, so it couldn't have been the shower that had done this. "Richie Tozier, have you been picking at your bandages again?" he asked, eyes full of fire.

Clearly dodging the question, Richie replied, "Dearest Dr. K, you look so cute when you're mad."

"I'm not fucking _cute_ , you dumbass fool."

"Aww, you have a special combination of mean words just for me! You _do_ care."

Eddie leaned back down, shaking his head. "Hold still." He began to unravel the bandages so he could replace them with new ones, squinting at the cuts on Richie's calf that were slowly scabbing over. They should be farther along by now. _That stupid fuck muffin_. "You haven't been touching these, too, have you?"

Richie looked up and to the left, his lips puckering slightly. "Well..."

"Richie!" _I knew it._

"It was only a little bit!" the taller male complained.

"Bullshit. Look at how nasty they still look!" Eddie did have to force his eyes away, truly just a tad bit sickened by the sight of the healing wounds even if he only showed it right then for dramatic effect and nothing else.

"You think I look nasty?" Richie pouted, and the way he conjured such a genuine tone made Eddie look up in alarm only to realize he was just joking. Richie, in turn, laughed, brow cinching. "Aww, Eddie Spaghetti, you're too kind to me."

"Like you said. I worry enough for the both of us," Eddie grumbled. "Now hold still, there's dried blood because you fucked with it." He didn't stop complaining under his breath until he had cleaned and rewrapped both of Richie's legs. He whined quietly every time he found a new spot where Richie had clearly picked at the scab enough for it to bleed and crust over again. It was entirely too gross for Eddie's liking, but this was also Richie, and Eddie cared a little too much to just walk away and pretend it was fine. Besides, if there was one thing anyone knew about Edward Kaspbrak, it was that he _never_ did things halfway.

"Are we done?" Richie asked for what had to be the third time, and Eddie rolled his eyes for what had to be the millionth.

"Yes, Richie," he sighed, "we're done." He rolled the boy's pant legs back down, standing up straight. "Now, what did I tell you?"

Richie grinned. "I'm a dumbass fool?"

"Not that part."

"I look nasty?"

"Not that part, either!"

Richie sighed dramatically, hopping down from the counter. "Don't touch my cuts," he groaned, defeated.

"There we go." Eddie smiled, patting his shoulder. "You're learning."

"Yeah, yeah." Richie shook his head." You are too kind to me, you know."

"Bullshit."

"Whatever. Come on, I wanna go see what movie we're watching. Maybe there are sex scenes." Richie winked, and Eddie thumped him in the chest. Currently, however, the shorter boy was scrambling for an excuse. He didn't want Richie to leave so soon. He wanted more time alone with the boy.

Eddie glanced up to his dripping wet hair: an excuse. So when Richie's hand finally reached the doorknob, Eddie blurted, "Wait, Chee, hold on." It had just slipped out like it was something he said all the time. His cheeks flushed as Richie swiveled back around, smirking.

"Chee?"

"Shut up, loser," Eddie mumbled, grabbing whatever was closest to him— a hairbrush— to hit Richie in the shoulder. He gripped the brush in his hand, using it to point at Richie. "Your hair is a mess."

"Yeah, Spagheds, what else is new?" Richie chuckled. "Next thing I know, you'll be telling me the sky is blue—"

"I'm saying—" Eddie eyed the hairbrush. "Get back here and let me fix it."

Richie's eyebrows rose slightly, his hand slipping off of the doorknob. That was a good sign, right? "Fix it? Do you even know how?"

Eddie twirled the hairbrush, wielding it like a knife.

"I can learn, bitch."

Richie laughed, shaking his head. A few droplets of water landed on Eddie's skin. He rubbed them off. "Fine. But you're definitely gonna need to use the towel."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock," Eddie huffed out, glancing down at the brush and pulling old hair out of it. His lips turned down at the corners; once he dumped the ball of hair into the wastebasket by the toilet, he set the brush down and took a quick break to sanitize his hands again. He glanced up to Richie, tilting his head. "Want some?"

"I just showered," Richie laughed. "My whole self is clean. Including my hands, believe it or not."

"Sure," Eddie snorted, remembering the dried blood that had sat above Richie's eyebrows. "If you're not gonna use hand sanitizer, then just don't touch me."

"Fine," Richie said, startling Eddie when he stuck his hand out. "Give me some, then." Eddie felt his cheeks flush, wondering what had made Richie change his mind. Surely not what he had just said? Nonetheless, Eddie obliged, pouring some into Richie's palm. The taller boy scrubbed it half-assedly into his hands and then called it a day.

Eddie shook his head, pulling a face. "Not like that, stupid."

Richie glanced up, raising an eyebrow. "What are you talking about? I didn't do anyth—"

Eddie shut him up by reaching over for his hands. "You barely even rubbed it in." He worked his thumbs into Richie's palms, ignoring how warm Richie's hands were and how every little twitch of the taller boy's fingers made sparks shoot up into Eddie's hands. He caught himself wishing Richie would turn his hands over and close them around Eddie's.

To stop himself from fantasizing anymore, he pulled back. "There. That's how you do it," he finished, tucking the bottle of hand sanitizer back into his fanny pack and beckoning Richie forward. "Now come here." He hopped up onto the counter and motioned for Richie to turn around. "You better have a strong scalp."

"My scalp is perfectly fine. What I'm worried about is my hair."

"Why?"

"You're going to abuse it!"

"Oh, shut the fuck up and tilt your head down." Eddie snorted, but he tried to stifle it, reaching instead to grab the corners of the brown towel around Richie's shoulders. "I'm gonna dry your hair."

"Are you gonna be careful, or are you gonna—"

Eddie didn't let him finish, throwing part of the towel over his messy head of hair and scrubbing it. There were muffled noises of protest, but Eddie kept it up, a mischievous grin stealing his lips.

"Eddie!" Richie whined when the boy let up. "You're gonna ruin my curls. They're gonna get all frizzy."

"You'll be fine." Eddie patted him twice on the head. "Now, turn back around and hold still." Surprisingly, Richie followed the orders. Eddie pulled his shoulders back slightly so Richie could stand in front of him, basically between his legs. Eddie picked up the brush again, setting his free hand against Richie's head. He dragged the brush through Richie's tangled curls, and when the boy accidentally let a soft grunt slip, Eddie slowed down. "Sorry."

"It's fine."

"You _do_ have a sensitive scalp, you big baby."

"Oh, fuck off."

"Doesn't matter anyway. I've known that since we were, like, six." Each time Eddie eased the brush through another section of Richie's hair, it always bounced back into place, the curls coiling tightly again every time. Eddie wondered what Richie's hair would look like if they straightened it. Probably just as good. The thought made him blush. Luckily, if Richie noticed, he didn't say anything.

Eddie finally pulled the brush through the last few tangly patches in Richie's hair, carding his fingers through the thick locks a few times to make sure he had it all sorted out. It was like brushing a Barbie's hair, or untangling a slinky. It took for-fucking-ever, but the results were very satisfying. He smoothed down Richie's curls and set the brush aside, narrowing his eyes. It needed something more. "Did you condition it?"

"Did I what?" Richie turned back around, regarding Eddie with wide eyes. "Did Bev convert you into a makeup artist?!"

"It's not makeup, dumbass." Eddie crossed his arms, noting how his hands were a little wet from spending too much time in Richie's damp hair. "It's conditioner. For your hair. Moron."

"You're speaking an alien language to me right now, Eds."

"My name is Eddie."

"More alien code! I don't understand!"

Eddie laughed, shaking his head. "Beep beep. You obviously didn't use conditioner, so we're gonna find out if Stan has any leave-in that we can just put in your hair and then forget about." _Because, let's be honest, we're both gonna fall asleep on the living room floor before midnight even hits._ "And, I mean, come on. With _those_ curls, how could he _not_ have anything?" Eddie slipped into habit, standing on the toilet so he could pull the doors of the cabinet on the wall open. This way, he could reach the highest shelf if he needed to. He did it all the time at home— it was instinct to do it here, too.

Eddie sifted through bottles, eyes scanning countless labels. He passed hairspray, anti-aging cream, acne treatment, and more. Finally, he stumbled across one that had the properties he needed. A gel he could leave in Richie's hair that would supposedly make it healthier and softer. "Turn back around," he instructed, pulling the bottle out and plopping back down on the counter.

Richie, seemingly half incredulous by now, only did what was asked of him. "So, what? What does this do?"

"Strengthens your hair," Eddie hummed, popping the cap off and squeezing some conditioner out and onto his palm. "Makes it healthier. And probably smells good."

"Is that why your hair is always so soft?" Richie mused. Eddie couldn't help but smile a little.

"Yeah, I use my mom's." He rubbed his hands together, lathering them equally in the conditioner.

"Just like I— oh, hmm." Richie was in the middle of a mom joke when Eddie slid his small hands back into the curls again. The raven-haired boy grunted once and then fell completely silent, his head tilting back slightly when Eddie massaged the conditioner throughout his hair.

Eddie smirked. _What a dickhead._ Unfortunately, this was _his_ dickhead. "There," he murmured, but he didn't yet pull his hands away, working his fingers between the locks a few more times. Just for good measure. Just to make sure it was all spread out evenly. Finally, though, he reluctantly pulled back, sliding down from the counter to go wash his hands. "That's great for your hair. Just try not to touch it every five seconds or you'll get it on your hands, idiot."

"Right." Richie shrugged, still grinning when he turned to Eddie. "Thanks for the help, then, Spaghettio."

"I have a name."

"And I have a movie date with Staniel." Richie winked, and even though the wording made Eddie a little jealous, the shorter boy couldn't help but smile back.

"Fine. I'll make popcorn."

"Sounds good to me." Richie leaned forward, tousling Eddie's hair for once. He grabbed the towel and pulled it off his shoulders, tossing it to Eddie. "Hang that up for me?" he asked, flashing puppy eyes before he was off. The taller boy pulled the door open and disappeared, letting fresh, cool air flood the humid bathroom.

Eddie shook his head, standing on tiptoe to throw the towel over the bar attached to the wall. He glanced to the mirror, which was still steamy, and sighed heavily. He leaned forward, allowing his index finger to trace a small R + E in the bottom corner. Eddie's cheeks colored, and he wiped the letters away quickly, leaving a small clear space at the bottom of the reflective glass.

"Eddie?"

Eddie jumped about a million feet into the air. He glanced up to see Mike in the doorway, now raising an eyebrow and asking, "You good?"

"Y-Yeah. Duh. I'm fine." Before Mike could ask again, Eddie forced out a nervous laugh, slamming the cabinet door closed and slipping past. He emerged from the bathroom with hot cheeks that anyone else would assume was due to the humidity from Richie's shower.

The air out in the hallway was easier to breathe than the stuffy air in the bathroom. It was for this reason that Eddie was asking himself why he still felt like he was suffocating upon the thought of Richie Tozier.


	11. Richie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie and Stanley try to bake a cake. Chaos ensues.

"Stop moving."

It had to be the sixth time Stan had said that to him in the past hour. _Honestly, that might be a record._ Richie sighed, letting his hand drop from where he'd been picking at the tops of his bandages (which should probably be coming off soon, because if they didn't, Richie was going to tear them apart on accident by ripping them each time he messed with them, and he was sure Eddie wouldn’t be very happy about that).

If Richie were to be honest, he was getting a little antsy. If he were to be _completely_ honest... _Jesus Christ, I think I'm getting gray hairs just sitting here doing nothing._ Bird watching wasn't exactly his favorite sport. Sure, he liked to tag along to support Stan, but it didn't usually turn out too well. Every time, he promised himself it would be peaceful. Every time, he failed and messed it up somehow. Richie knew by now that Stan did his _real_ bird watching alone. It didn't bother him as much as he figured it would, though. _Let Stan do boring shit by himself. I'm here to spice it up every once in awhile, at least._ Besides, how else would anyone get any excitement around here if it weren't for Richie forcing everyone to have fun?

Okay, that was a _little_ conceited. Richie knew the Losers could have fun without him. They could just have _double_ the fun when he was there. He was sure of it! Besides, he didn't miss all the little grins Stan hid behind his hand, or every time Beverly threw her head back laughing too hard, or every time Eddie had to force a smile down to pretend to be mad at him. What could he say? He was a charmer.

Evidently, he was also _terrible_ at staying still, and even _worse_ at keeping his damn mouth shut. Once again, he gave in to his temptations, breaking the serene silence and causing a wild fluttering of wings in a nearby tree. "Did you know—"

"Richie," Stanley groaned. "Stop _moving."_

"I'm not fucking moving!"

"Your mouth counts as a part of you, dipshit." Stan was cutting him no slack today, it seemed, but Richie was okay with that. He needed a day to reign in his dysfunctional humor and be normal. A day to be in tip top shape. Stan was good at making Richie behave, as it turned out. Bev encouraged his behavior, and Eddie's protests made Richie want to act out. But it was different with Stan.

He glanced to the other boy again, lowering his binoculars to stare at Stanley in hopes that he hadn't pissed him off too much. The other boy had a pair of his own binoculars, and his head was tilted back as he scoured the sky for beating feathers. Richie didn't get how he kept his face tilted up for so long. _Isn't he scared he'll get shit on by some punk bird?_ Finally, Stan lowered his arms and turned to Richie, scowling. "You're shit at this."

Richie offered a cheeky grin, realizing that he'd had to move to look at Stan. And moving was kind of the opposite of what Stan wanted him to do. _Whoops. There it goes again._ "We've been over that, Staniel," he mused, still trying to keep his voice a little low.

The taller boy shook his head, fluffy hair bouncing. "Too many times." Just when Richie thought he would go back to staring at the sky, Stanley got to his feet, offering a hand. "Come on. We're done."

"Finally!" he exclaimed at normal volume again, causing more birds to spook and take flight. He took Stan's hand happily, hopping to his feet and stretching his arms out. "I thought we'd be here all _day."_

"You just want to get somewhere with phone lines so you can speak to your darling."

"Oh, Stanley," Richie sighed (even though his stomach was filled with butterflies, because he knew exactly what Stan meant), shaking his head. “You foolish, foolish boy. I won't need a phone if we're going back to your house. Your mother and I are deeply in love, and I'll finally be able to see her in person again."

"Shut _up."_

"Does it look like I know how to do _that?"_

"Yeah, you're right. I should've considered that." Stan shook his head, bumping Richie's shoulder with his own. "Come on. We've still got shit to do. We're using the oven today."

"Oh my god, I _did_ forget about that." Richie grinned. "I can't believe you're trusting me with real live _ingredients."_

"I'm not. You're gonna read it off to me and _I'm_ gonna make the actual food."

"Aww, Stanny boy," Richie pouted, "you didn't have to be so mean about it."

"Yeah, I did."

"Fair enough." Richie wasn't really that great when it came to the culinary arts— everyone who knew him knew that much. He burned basically whatever he touched, and if it wasn't possible to burn it, he found some other unique way to ruin it. In the kitchen, Richie destroyed pretty much anything he laid his hands on. After the last fiasco, where Richie had nearly caused the Uris family's toaster to go up in flames, Stan had decided to draw the line. So Richie didn't normally make food anymore.

Except it was hard to escape it. Mrs. Uris _was_ a baker, after all, and Stan took after her, so when she got too busy or overwhelmed, it was on Stanley to be the backup baker. Richie just so happened to be along for the ride this time— a lot of the times, actually. It wasn't uncommon; Stanley and he were close enough for them to show up at each other's houses unannounced.

They needed to finish the order by tonight; it was a birthday cake order that would be picked up at the bakery around five. So now it was Stanley and Richie: dream team (though Richie knew he wasn't going to be doing much actual helping). He was usually left to pace across the kitchen, bored, and read a bunch of fractions and abbreviations off of a page in a cookbook while Stan did the actual work. He didn't mind that much, but he did feel a little bad this time. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't really practice being a master chef without nearly burning the house down.

They crunched sticks and leaves under their feet, making their way back to town, and Richie glanced up at the sunbeams that cut their way through the treetops. The Barrens were always peaceful this time of day, as long as there was no Henry Bowers to run into. He was still on edge about that, actually— it had been too long since their last scuffle. Richie hadn't been brave enough to venture out alone in public ever since, but even having a friend with him didn't do much to quell his nerves. Bowers and company were stronger, bigger, and older than all the Losers. It was foolish to think two freshmen could take on him to the whole gang.

Even so, Richie couldn't be assed to force everyone to make accommodations for him. He wasn't a _scaredy-cat._ He wouldn't bother everyone with that. It would be inconvenient to drag a huge group of people around with him at all hours of the day. And there was yet another reason he hadn't told his parents the truth about the fight— they'd probably be hella paranoid. It was a natural reaction, but it would be stupid to have them worrying so much. Maggie and Wentworth would probably make him stay home more often if they knew he was being chased down by a group of freaky upperclassmen all the time, but Richie didn't _want_ to stay home. So it stayed a secret.

Stan's voice drew him back to the present. "Do you even remember what we're doing?"

"Ummm." Richie racked his brain. What kind of food were they making? "Cake, right? Birthday cake?"

Stan nodded once in confirmation. "White cake, pink icing. Blue sprinkles. Weird color combination, if you ask me."

"Inclusive," Richie cracked. He kicked a rock and Eddie sprang to mind out of nowhere. He tried to banish, the thoughts, but it was difficult finally coming face to face with the fact that first of all, he was gay, and second of all, his first crush on a boy was _Eddie Kaspbrak._ Eddie Kaspbrak, the one boy who fought with him literally _every day._ It didn't matter that they were best friends. Or that they had held hands. Or fallen asleep on each other. Or shared the hammock. Richie was fucked!

_Well, now that I think about it, maybe there's a little bit of promising evidence._

He cleared his throat. _Back on track, Tozier._ "How much would you pay me to pour flour on Eddie next time we all hang out?"

"Zero. Zero dollars," Stan answered. "Actually, negative ten dollars."

"What? Staniel, that's not how it works."

"That isn't my name." Stan gave him a blank look. Richie knew he wasn't really mad, but the stony, unchanging expression Stan always wore sometimes made it a little hard to tell.

"Well, 'course," he rattled off in a heavy southern drawl. "Your name is Stanley Urine, and 'round these parts— ow!" He broke the accent at the end to voice his disapproval of the way Stan had hit him in the arm to shut him up.

"You're shit at impressions, anyone ever told you that?"

"Everyone. That's why I do them." Richie smiled. "Don't lie, Stanny boy. You love them."

"I wish I did. Maybe it would make this walk a little more bearable."

Richie let out a belting laugh at Stanley’s cynical disposition, shaking his head so his curls flew into his face. "Oh, Stan, you're killing me here." Was this really the same boy who had let Richie sit on his shoulders just to shit talk Eddie through his bedroom window? Richie looked at Stan and saw... Well, he saw one stressed motherfucker. _How can I help fix that today?_

There was only one answer Richie could actually perform, no matter if it was the right one or not: cause more mayhem. Maybe it would help Stan loosen up a little more. Or maybe not. _Maybe it'll piss him off._ It was always fifty fifty with Stan. But there was one thing that never changed; they were best friends, and Stan never stayed mad at him for long. Sure, a little longer than Eddie, because Eddie could never be mad at him for more than fifteen minutes— _Spaghetti Head is fucking bipolar, that's why—_ but Stanley was never really angry with Richie for any longer than a few days at most.

Thinking of Eddie again, even briefly, made his face a little hot and his palms a little sweaty. He knew it was wrong, and it was _bad—_ from what society said, anyway. But ever since he'd admitted it out loud to Beverly, there had been no going back. He had admitted his crush and now all he could do was keep pining. He kicked a rock, and his eyes followed it as it rolled across the ground. When he finally reached it, he kicked it again. And again. And again.

"What's up with you?"

Stan's voice broke the silence, and Richie jumped, wide eyes finding the other boy's. "What?" he asked nervously, lifting a hand to push his glasses back up his nose.

"You were smiling." Stanley raised an eyebrow. "So what's up?"

Richie's mind went blank. Immediately, he forced down any inkling of a grin that may have been left on his face and struggled for a reply. "Uhhh." He had absolutely nothing. _Shit, shit, shit. You're supposed to be better than this at improv, Tozier._ "I was just thinking about how much fun I'm gonna have with your mom today, dude." _Not another mom joke!_

But it _was_ another mom joke. That seemed to be all that was coming out of Richie's mouth these days. It made him a little pessimistic in viewing his future, if he was honest. How was he going to make it in the entertainment industry— his biggest dream— if he couldn't even come up with anything better than a few scraggly jokes about fucking someone's mom?

_Oh, whatever. I'm only fourteen, anyway._

It was no big deal. Besides, Stan was rolling his eyes (was that number fifty-four or number fifty-five of the day?), which usually meant it was a particularly well timed joke. "Yeah, Richie," said Stan. "You have fun with my mom, but keep in mind I have a meeting with yours later." Richie was pleasantly surprised by this response; Stanley didn't often stoop to the level of mom jokes. _Perfect. Must've been a good one, then. Or at least tolerable._

Yeah, he felt a _little_ guilty. _Maybe he was_ actually _trying to help._ But Richie wasn't great at expressing his feelings— even with Stan, one of his closest friends. How was he supposed to start now? He couldn't just drop a _'Hey, I'm gay'_ bomb on the guy out of nowhere. _That would be weird as fuck!_ It seemed Richie was constantly trying to impress him, but to no avail; Stan always had the better comeback. Richie didn't mind, though.

"Hey, Stan?"

"What?"

"You ever wonder," Richie mused, "why some idiots sit in bushes to stare at birds all afternoon? Like, what's the purpose? _Where_ is the _appeal?_ If _I_ were a bird, watcher— Oww, hey! I conditioned my hair last night!" That was true. He'd started after Eddie pointed it out to him. It was a little girly, but what could he say? It made his hair so much better. "Stan, stop, you're going to ruin all the effort I put into my curls!"

After a few minutes more of complaining, Richie realized they were back to civilization and heading for the Hannaford grocery store down the street from McCrory's. "Stan?"

"What?"

"Where the hell are we going? I didn't sign up to be your errand boy, if I recall correctly."

Stanley rolled his eyes. _Ah, another. Write that down, write that down!_ "We have to pick up some ingredients that we don't have at home." He fished around in his pocket and then produced a list. "Mom gave me this and fifteen bucks. It's only got a few things on it."

"If comic books isn't one of the items on that list, I'm not stepping foot into Hannaford."

"Hannaford doesn't _sell_ comic books, you fucking dumbass."

"Hey!" Richie laughed. "Fine. What's first on the list? And do we need a cart?" he asked as Stan pulled the door open.

"No, get one of the little baskets." Richie did as he was instructed, reaching over to pluck one of the plastic baskets off the top of the stack by the entrance. "First thing we need is a carton of eggs."

"You're the leader, Stan the Man." The store smelled like fresh produce and all he could hear was the soft murmur of a bunch of customers talking amongst themselves. Richie often found himself doing the grocery shopping for the family, since his mother was busy with her business and his father was always tired when he came home from all that fancy dental work he did all day (Richie didn't really know all the details, because he had no interest in becoming a dentist like Wentworth; he just knew it was pretty taxing). Since he went shopping so much, he had pretty much memorized the best and fastest paths through the store.

So, even though he had put Stan in charge of navigation through the store for this trip, he nearly accidentally turned a different way when Stan tried to lead him down an aisle Richie never used. "Where are you going?" Uris called after him, and Richie's eyebrows shot up.

"Oops." He veered off to the side to catch up with Stanley again, shrugging. "That's normally the way I take to get to the eggs." A sly smirk crossed his lips. "Just like—"

"Whatever joke is about to come out of your mouth, I don't wanna hear it." Stanley leaned over to pick up a carton of eggs, opening it and turning each one to check if they were broken. Richie was astonished by the amount of care he put into it. Normally, when he went shopping, he just threw all his shit into the cart and moved on, hoping it would end up fine. He didn't dwell on the little things. Stanley was different; he was so meticulous about it. 

"You done yet?"

"Sure." Stanley closed the carton again, carefully setting the eggs in Richie's basket. "Careful with those." Then, when they started walking, Stan shot him a look. "Go slower."

"That's what your mom said last night. Ohhh!"

"Have you considered getting baptized?"

"Never." Richie winked. "I'm a devil's advocate, Staniel."

"God help me," Stan mumbled under his breath. Then, a little louder: "You know—"

" _You_ know," Richie cut in, "you should really get someone else to do the shopping for you."

"Yeah?" Stan raised an eyebrow. "Color me impressed. You have a good idea for once, huh?"

"Yes!" Richie took the list from Stanley's outstretched hand. He squinted at one of the words— it wasn't his fault that Mrs. Uris's handwriting was so hard to read!— and then glanced up at the shelf in the aisle Stan had made them stop in, searching for something called baking powder. "I have a perfect idea."

"Do tell," Stan said, with about as much enthusiasm as someone about to fall asleep. 

"Bill Denbrough would make one hell of a housewife. You should get him to shop for you." Richie set his hands on his hip, missing the spit take Stan did. "What the fuck is a baking powder?"

Stanley snatched the list back defensively, shoving Richie out of the way with a little more force than normal. "Shut up, Richie."

"Oh? Shut up? Do tell me why." Now he was interested. Stan had never outright admitted that he _had feelings_ for Bill, but Richie could see that _something_ was up by the way the two interacted. Maybe I’m not the only one. He could've just been making things up, he supposed, but... It was painfully similar to how he himself danced around his little crush on Eddie. _Staniel and Billiam: a match made in heaven._

Grumbling something under his breath, Stanley grabbed a box down from the shelf, angrily tossing it into the cart. "You're just lying to get on my nerves. Beep beep already," he hissed, and, much to Richie's delight, Stan's cheeks had begun to turn a little darker.

"Why? Do you like thinking of Bill—"

"Richie!" Stan stood up straight, taking a few steps so he was in Richie's personal space. "People are gonna _hear_ you!"

"And? If it weren't true, you wouldn't care."

"Except I do, 'cause I don't really make it part of my to-do list to get labeled as a fucking _fairy."_

Richie took a breath. Stan’s use of the word stung harshly, and something in his chest came crashing down. _He_ didn't want to get labeled as a fairy either. If only Stan knew. _He probably does,_ a voice in his brain whispered to him. He shook the thought away, setting his focus on Stan again. He didn't want to get into a fight over this, and clearly, Stan was distressed. _You should stop. You should probably shut your mouth now._

But he had to get the last word in.

"I just think it's neat how much you love Billiam—"

"Richie, shut the _fuck_ up," Stan snapped, reaching for the closest thing on the shelf. He pulled down a box of vanilla extract and hit Richie in the side of the head with it. "You wanna talk about Bill? Well, I'd rather talk about _Eddie,_ because all you do is stare at him all day and write his name in your notebook and—"

Panicked, Richie reached forward and pressed his hand against Stan's mouth to shut him up. His face, he was sure, was now redder than a tomato, and his heart was starting to beat faster. "Okay, okay! I get it!" Carefully, he stepped back, lowering his hand. "We—” He swallowed hard. “We'll call it a tie, then."

Walking past Richie, Stan set the vanilla extra gently into the cart. "We're gonna talk about this later," he mused, and Richie felt his heart squeeze.

"In front of the whole _supermarket?"_

"No, dipshit, that's why I said later. Jesus Christ, Rich."

Richie would've taken the time to be relieved, but he still had more questions than answers. "I thought you didn't _believe_ in Jesus."

"Oh my god." Stan turned to Richie, exasperated, but his hands remained on the handlebars of the cart. "We believe in him. He just wasn't the Messiah."

"The who?"

"Nevermind," Stan sighed. "If we talk about it while we're making the cake, you'll probably drop the whole jar of flour or something—"

"Hey!"

"—so we'll talk about it over dinner."

"Fine."

And that was that; Richie agreed to talk about his thoughts on Eddie and Stan's thoughts on Bill, Stan kept pushing the cart, and the shopping ensued.

—

Richie stared at the words on the page, nose scrunching. "This doesn't seem right."

Stan, from across the kitchen, called, "What doesn't?" Richie had clearly captured his attention; even though the boy's hands were splattered with spots of batter, Stan was turning around, soft hair falling ridiculously low over his eyes. The blue apron he wore fit his lanky figure just right, and it was tied tightly in the back to ensure it wouldn't slip down. Richie would've made fun of him for wearing an apron, but that joke was really getting old by now. Plus, Stan was wearing a white shirt; Richie had to admit, it was pretty practical.

"You need a haircut, Stanny boy," Richie quipped. His eyes flitted down to the book. _Right. The recipe._ "I think it's wrong." Richie narrowed his eyes, lifting his hand to point at a measurement. "I may not be a great cook, but why would you put salt in a cake?"

Stan sighed, a long, exasperated exhale. "Richie," he began, "I'm pretty sure I've explained this to you six hundred times by now."

"Have you?"

"Yes, Bitchie." Stan glanced down. "Also, your shoes are untied."

Richie huffed, but didn't correct Stanley. After all, he was always giving the other boy fantastical nicknames that he hated. "I don't care. What's the reason, then, Staniel?"

"It's to bring out the other flavors. Duh." Stan finally moved to the sink, rinsing his hands. "The salt's presence draws out the depths and complexity—"

"What the fuck are you saying to me right now, Mr. Dictionary?"

Stan shot a look over his shoulder at Richie and went back to scrubbing his hands free of sticky batter. "The salt is to make everything else pop, and to balance out the sweetness. But you're not supposed to be able to taste it, which is why you only put in a little bit. Don't think I can't see you stealing batter, dumbass."

Richie removed his (clean!) finger from the edge of the batter, pouting as he licked up the tiny bit of sweet batter he'd managed to snag. "You're no fun." Then he wrinkled his nose, staring at the batter. "That tastes gross."

"That's supposed to go into the _cake,_ Rich," Stan tutted. "And it tastes gross because it's just the wet ingredients. The sugar goes with the dry ingredients." When the only expression that crossed Richie's face was confusion, Stan sighed, shaking his head. "Go wash your hands."

Sulking, Richie made his way to the sink after Stan moved, purposely bumping his shoulder against Stan's as he passed. "You sound like a school textbook, you old fart."

"You're older than me, genius." Stanley pointed to the canister of iodized salt on the edge of the sink and held his hand out. "Give me that."

Richie complied reluctantly, reaching over for the canister of Morton Salt and slapping it down into Stan's hand. "There. You're welcome." He turned the water off and tiptoed up behind Stan while he artfully sprinkled a bit of salt into a new bowl. Richie reached up to wipe his wet hands on the back of Stanley's shirt.

"I hate you so much."

"You love me, Stan the Man."

"Do I?" Stanley turned around, setting his hands on his hips, and Richie couldn't help but laugh. With the apron wrapped around his torso and the spoon sticking out of his fist, he looked like a mom making a cake for her kid.

"Yep. You do. Even Beverly said so." Richie leaned over to plant a quick kiss on Stan's cheek, and the sandy haired boy rolled his eyes but tolerated the comfortable platonic gesture, one that stemmed from years and years of trust and an unbreakable bond between two best friends. Stan gave in, one of his arms coming up to give Richie a resigned half hug. That was the most Richie got, but it was good enough for him. That was enough to prove Stan wasn’t completely and utterly disgusted by him. He leaned back, beaming. "Oh, Stanny boy, what can I do to make you love me?"

"You could get the flour from the top cabinet while I look for the sugar."

"Aye aye, Captain Urine." Richie whirled around, newly equipped with dry hands and a mission to find the flour. The top cabinet wasn't a very far reach for Richie nor Stanley; all he had to do was stretch a little and he could reach anything just fine. He trotted over to the cabinets about the counter, but he got a little distracted before he could get his hands on the flour jar. He glanced down at the radio against the wall, brows lifting when he heard MC Hammer's voice floating out of it. "Oh, I love this song."

"Flour, Richie."

"Right." He hummed along with the bass line of _Can't Touch This,_ reaching up to wrap his hands around the white ceramic flour jar. After pulling it down from the shelf, he peered at the label skeptically. "This is the flour, right? I think it's spelled wrong."

"Richie—"

"Doesn't flour have a W in it?"

"Richie, who _educated_ you?"

As tempted as Richie was to reply _'your mom,'_ he managed to suppress the urge. "Same teachers who educated you." He winked and then glanced back down at the label, brow furrowing. "Okay, but seriously, Staniel. Where's the W?"

"That's a different version. They're homophones."

Richie nearly choked. He felt a spark of panic swell in his chest. "Homo- _what?"_

"It's not pronounced _hoe-mo._ It's like _ha-mo._ Homophones."

"Oh." Phew. He wanted to kick himself for getting so worked up over some fancy grammatical term. Richie had never been much for English and language arts, anyway. He was a math and science kind of guy all the way. Stan and Eddie were the English boys. Mike was a history buff himself. That left Bev, Richie, and Bill to be the math and science types of nerds. (Ben was kind of good at everything, really— writing poetry and then turning around to be a math whiz.) "So flower and flour are different, then."

"In spelling and meaning, yes. Now come here, I need that."

Richie glanced to the radio on the counter again. _Oh, this is gonna be perfect._ The song was just now coming up on its climax, the best part of the chorus, where MC Hammer told everyone they couldn't touch this. If he timed this right... Yes, now Richie had a master plan. He strutted over to Stan, offering the jar. "Here."

Right when Stan reached to take it, right when the beat dropped, Richie and MC Hammer both said, simultaneously, "Can't touch this!" Richie yanked the jar back to his chest and danced away from Stan to keep the flour out of his reach. And for a few moments, it was glorious.

Then his brain said, _Remember that shoelace that isn't tied? What if we tripped over it?_

Richie hit the floor a few seconds later, and he didn't _drop_ the heavy ceramic jar, but the lid jerked out of place, and the flour dumped _everywhere._ All he heard was Stan gasping, but he couldn't see much, considering his glasses were coated in a not-so-fine layer of pure flour. He sat up, fumbling to set the jar upright and salvage as much of the flour as he could. When he lifted his glasses and set them on top of his messy mop of hair, he could vaguely make out the cloud of flour rising into the air because of the impact and then settling on anything in its reach. He smiled sheepishly.

"At least the toaster isn't on fire?"


	12. Eddie

"Hold still. Oh my god, you're shit at this," Eddie giggled, reaching down into the bowl on the floor by his side for another piece of popcorn. The bowl was a little gross, and maybe Eddie was a tiny bit bothered by the butter getting all over his fingers, but he didn't say anything, because throwing it was more fun than eating it, anyway.

Richie tilted his head back down, enraged. "I'm not shit! _You're_ shit! You can't throw straight— Hey!" Another piece of popcorn bounced off of the boy's face, courtesy of Eddie Kaspbrak himself. "You dick!"

"Yeah, well, you weren't exactly _holding still,_ you fucking idiot—"

"Oh my god, you two are insufferable," Stan sighed from across the room. He was hanging over the edge of the couch, his sandy curls brushing against the carpet, and he was holding a magazine with three birds on the cover. As usual. Eddie did like nonfiction, so he could understand the appeal, but it seemed all Stan ever read about were birds. Which, Eddie reasoned, was a good topic to study. Birds were plenty cute and interesting, after all. He was just surprised Stan didn't get bored of it.

Eddie tossed a piece of popcorn at Stan's face. The sandy-haired boy lifted his head, shot Eddie a glare, and then relaxed again, going back to his magazine.

"If we're so insufferable, you wouldn't have invited us over," Richie said. "You would've just invited—"

"Shut the fuck up." Stan's face was starting to get pink, but Eddie couldn't tell if it was out of embarrassment or if it was from hanging upside down. _Whatever. It’s not my business._

"Listen, Stan, I don't think it's very good for you to be sitting like that. I mean, really, you could hurt yourself. All the blood is gonna rush to your head and you could get ruptured blood vessels. And then you could get a brain hemorrhage, and that could lead to..."

Eddie slowly came to a stop once he realized nobody was really listening. Richie was bugging Stan, pulling at his hair while Stan tried to fight him off, and Bill was jerking the stick of an Atari back and forth and jamming his thumb into the little red button in the corner repeatedly, staring at Stan's huge television screen. Bill wasn't quite as obsessed with video games as Richie was— he rarely talked about them and honestly didn't play all that much, anyway— but he really wasn't bad. He'd become an expert at Pong and Breakout just from playing on Stan's Atari and was now trying to master Space Invaders.

Nobody else was there yet. It was half past six, but the plan was for the Losers to finally meet up for a much needed movie night at Stan's place, which they hadn't done in a week or two. Right now, it was just the four of them: the original Losers. Bill had been playing on the Atari for the past half an hour; Stan had watched for awhile before announcing that he was _'losing brain cells'_ and going to find something better to do with his time. Meanwhile, Eddie and Richie had been on each other's nerves since the second Eddie walked through the doorway and Richie pretended to catcall him about his tiny red track shorts.

Eddie sighed, shaking his head, and picked up another piece of popcorn, chucking it at Richie's nose. Bullseye. It hit its intended target, and Richie swiveled around, narrowing his eyes. "Spagheds, that was an act of war."

"That was my sixth act of war in the last hour. Where have you been?"

"Your mom's house." Richie opened his mouth for more, and Eddie gladly threw another piece of popcorn at him. "Molly Ringwald wouldn't treat me this way. Where is she, anyway?" he complained, and Eddie felt that familiar twinge of jealousy in his chest, but he remembered the conversation he'd had with Bev in the bathroom while she was doing his makeup, and he let out a breath. She had promised it wasn't his fault if Richie ignored him in favor of her. Richie was just... _figuring things out,_ whatever the fuck that meant.

"Probably decided not to come when she found out you were gonna be here,” Eddie snorted.

"She would never," Richie declared loudly, in an old world British accent, "for she doth love me!" Eddie couldn't even tell him to shut up— he was laughing too hard. "The fair lady wouldeth not destroyeth mine own hearteth—"

"You don't put 'eth' on the end of every single word, you fucking nerd," Stan butted in.

"Nerd? _Nerd?!"_ Richie exclaimed in his normal voice. _"You're_ the one reading books about blue jays every ten seconds!"

Stan glanced over at him, narrowing his eyes. "Black-backed woodpecker, actually. They eat beetle larvae."

"What a coincidence! So do I!"

"Ewwww," interrupted Bill and Eddie in unison.

"Oh, Eds, don't be that way. You're just jealous that I'm eating beetle babies and not your ass."

"Richie!" Without thinking much, Eddie grabbed the bowl of popcorn, which was now only a fourth of the way full. He took one look at the remaining amount and decided it wouldn't be too much to clean up, flinging the popcorn all over Richie, much to Stanley's dismay. Eddie went on to throw the plastic bowl at the raven-haired boy, which bounced off his head.

"Ow, Eds! How dare you betray me like this?!"

Eddie opened his mouth, completely ready to tell Richie to shut the fuck up and stop making dirty jokes. But then he reasoned with himself. _Why ruin the fun?_ Eddie jumped up, pointing dramatically at Richie. "Thee deserved it!" He couldn't do the accent, but he could speak better Shakespearean than Richie could, that was for sure. "Prepareth to square! I shall heave the gorge on thy livings, naughty mushrump!" He'd definitely read enough Shakespeare by now to quote some.

Richie leapt to his feet, and popcorn came tumbling down to the carpet. Stan put a hand to his chest, gripping it like he was having a heart attack. "Joke's on you, I don't know what the fuck that means!" Richie shouted.

"It means," Eddie yelled back, "get ready to die, motherfucker!" He grabbed a pillow from Stan's couch and chucked it at Richie's head, but the other boy was faster. Richie caught the pillow and threw it back at Eddie, who nearly fell over from the force when it hit his chest. "Oof."

"Weakling!" Richie taunted, bright eyed and smirking, and Eddie couldn't help but get butterflies in his stomach. Richie didn't care when Eddie was a nerd with him. Richie liked it, so Eddie was allowed to enjoy it. His eyes slid to Bill, still peacefully sitting in front of the coffee table. The tall brunet looked blissfully unaware of the popcorn mess that was spread across the table and the floor. Alternatively, Stanley had moved to curl up in the corner of the couch, the bird magazine still clutched in his hands. Eddie caught his eyes roaming to Bill a couple times. _I see you, Stan the Man._

Finally, Eddie forced his gaze back to Richie. Perfect, perfect Richie. He had to reply with something. "Coward!"

"Don't make me get down the curtain rod!"

"Don't touch my fucking curtain rod," Stan interjected.

"Thy mother is bacon-fed!" Eddie called back, lunging at Richie with the pillow in his hands.

Richie gasped dramatically. It seemed he'd finally understood at least one of the phrases. "How dare you call my mother fat?!"

"Thou art no more brain than stone!" Eddie called Richie stupid in Shakespearean language. He threw the pillow back to Richie, and it clipped his side.

"Oh yeah? Well, I may be stupid, but I sure as hell am strong!" Richie rushed forward, and Eddie backed up until he was against the wall. _Shit. Nowhere to go!_

So he was cornered, and Richie descended on him with a mad grin. The taller boy wrapped his arms around Eddie, hefting his wriggling body up. "Stay still, you filthy worm!" Eddie _didn't_ stay still, but Richie managed to get him under control anyway, hauling his body over to throw it onto the couch. Stan shot them a dry look from the other side of the couch but went back to his magazine.

"Now _you_ prepare to die!" Richie cackled. Eddie tried to sit up and get away, grabbing for the arm rest of the couch, but Richie was faster. Soon, his hands were all over Eddie's body, fingers dancing across his torso, and Eddie was kicking and squealing like a little kid.

"Rich! Richie! Richie, _stop,_ that _tickles!"_ he managed between breathless giggles. "Richie, no! Hey!" He didn't often like to let people touch him wherever they wanted, but Richie was sort of an exception to that rule. Eddie was always comfortable around Richie. "Hey!" he giggled again, squirming. "Chee!"

"Yes, Eddie, my love?" Richie replied, and fifteen new butterflies woke up inside Eddie's stomach. The raven-haired boy pressed his palms flat against Eddie's chest, pausing and giving the brunet time to breathe. "Doth thee taketh back thy words, my fairest?" he asked, smirking and staring Eddie down through his Coke-bottle lenses. People thought they looked stupid, but Eddie had always admired how they magnified Richie's eyes. _All the better for me to see them._ He realized he'd better say something instead of just staring at the face of gorgeous Richie Tozier.

"Oh, no way, you dumb motherfucker. You're still stupid. If only your IQ was the size of your ego."

Before Richie could get started again with the tickling, Eddie grinned and kicked him in the shin (he would've avoided it, but the bandages had come off yesterday, and Richie insisted that his legs weren't sore anymore). The taller boy's leg slid back, and he lost his footing, pitching forward. His chest collided with Eddie's, and while he scrambled to find somewhere to put his hands, his face hovered just above Eddie's.

_Oh. My. God._

All Eddie could offer was a frozen stare. Richie pulled back slightly but then stopped, and it was all Eddie could do to keep himself from yelling something at him. Richie's eyes searched Eddie's, looking almost afraid of what they might find, and Eddie tried to look as casual as possible. There was no way it was working, though. He offered no reply, clamming up. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't— Richie's eyes were so _captivating._ So there he laid, staring and staring, unable to think of anything to say that wouldn't instantly make things awkward. It looked like Richie was having the same problem. After just being literally centimeters away from bumping lips, it seemed both of them were a little flustered.

Luckily, neither of them had to break the silence themselves. A voice came from the doorway instead. "Jesus, do you two ever get off of each other?"

Eddie's head whipped around at the same time Richie's did. His cheeks went an even darker shade of pink and his face grew hotter; he didn't dare check to see if Richie's skin had done the same. _Fuck, it's Bev. Of course._ Eddie couldn't tell if he was happy Beverly was here because she was saving him from the embarrassment or if he hated her for showing up right then.

Richie pushed himself the rest of the way up and straightened his torso, hands reluctantly leaving Eddie's body, and the smaller boy scrambled to sit up, still out of breath. He struggled to fix his hair, running his fingers over the bangs that were supposed to sit just above his hairline but were instead in his eyes and sticking to his forehead.

Eddie, curse his motormouth, replied right away. "We'll be asking that in ten years when you and Ben are finally fucking married. Jesus Christ, the pining," he exclaimed dramatically. Bev was shocked at first, but then she bent her knees slightly. _Oh no. Oh shit. Oh fuck._

"You tiny ass track shorts wearing way too much hair gel looking overly healthy diet having four foot two piece of shit!"

Eddie squealed, shooting off the couch. _Hey! Better than being stuck under Richie._ He had mixed feelings about that, but he'd come back to it later. Right now, he was leaping over the popcorn mess and running around to the back of the couch to avoid an angry Beverly's grasp.

"You're so lucky Ben isn't here yet, little man," Bev hissed, and Eddie laughed.

"Why? 'Cause if he was here, you'd be too busy making out with him on the couch to catch me?" Eddie taunted.

"You short ass motherfucker!"

Bev lunged, but Eddie was smaller and faster, and he ducked out of her way easily. "Jesus wouldn't like that kind of language, Beverly—"

"Jesus can suck my ass!"

"I don't really think Jesus is into that," Stan quipped from the couch. Eddie was astounded by the fact that he paid no mind to the fight nor the mess. That must be one good ass bird book.

"Hey, what am I," Richie finally huffed from across the room, pouting at Beverly, "chopped liver?"

"Yep." Bev shot Eddie one last glare before giving up, trotting over to Richie.

"Finally, my fairest hath arrived!"

"Shut the fuck up, nerd." she smiled at him anyway.

"Surely, Miss Ringwald!"

"Good evening, Mister Stamos."

"Excuse you. John Stamos's hair is straight. Mine's _curly._ This is an outrage! You gotta know your stuff, Bevvie." Richie leaned forward to throw his arms around Beverly, acting completely normal. Like nothing had ever happened. Like he hadn't just almost...

Eddie blinked rapidly, realizing with a start that his chest felt tight, and his throat felt like it was going to close. Unsure whether it was a phantom pain or a real threat, he decided to err on the side of caution, yanking his inhaler out. He quickly shook it up and shoved it into his mouth, breathing in the fumes and counting to himself before stuffing the thing back in the fanny pack.

Eddie glanced tentatively to Stan, who seemed far too immersed in his magazine to care what had just happened. _Jesus Christ, Stan. You really love those birds._ The same went, Eddie figured, for Bill, whose eyes were glued on the screen, where Space Invaders was running. _So nobody saw that. Good._ He couldn't tell anyone— not even Bill. Nobody could know how close he’d been to Richie. That was... He still didn't know how to feel.

The small brunet didn't say another word, coming back around to the front of the couch to kneel and start picking up the popcorn that he'd thrown everywhere. It was only fair of him to clean up the mess he'd made, after all. He risked a glance at Richie and Bev and caught Richie leaning forward to whisper something into Beverly's ear. _Is he telling her?!_ Maybe he _was_ going to tell Bill, then. _Oh, god, I don't know._

He got caught staring a second later, though, when Bev's eyes fell on him. She gave him a little smirk that Richie couldn't see, and Eddie's face turned beet red. _Fuck, fuck, fuck. Abort!_ He whipped back around and grabbed another handful of floor popcorn, dumping it into the bowl.

"Mike and Ben will be here soon," Bev announced when Richie was done whispering. "I passed them on my bike on the way here." She flashed a grin. "Man, it was so funny to see them think they were gonna beat me here."

Eddie nodded, got to his feet, and decided not to make any more crude remarks about Ben Hanscom. He took the bowl with him, sliding into Stan's kitchen to dump the popcorn into the trash. He hated to waste it, but it had been a spur of the moment thing that proved very rewarding in the end, so he supposed it was excusable that he'd thrown a fourth of a bag of popcorn all over the Uris family living room. It was fine, since he'd cleaned it up.

Eddie moved to wash his hands, taking a second to flick some water into his own face just to make sure he was wide awake. _Get this shit under control, Eddie. Come on, Eddie. You're better than this, Eddie._ He let out a controlled breath, turning the water off, and despite just having washed his hands, he grabbed his bottle of hand sanitizer, spreading some across his small palms. _Jesus Christ, my hands are cold as fuck._

He needed to think about something else. Anything else. So he chose to think about Ben and Beverly, and the teasing he'd done to Bev.The best thing about it was that everyone but Bev and Ben knew they liked each other, anyway, so it didn't really matter if one of them did get mocked for it— as long as the other wasn't in the room. Now all the Losers had to wait for was for one of them to admit it. Unfortunately, it was taking a dreadfully loud time. _At least I'm not_ that _obvious._ Nobody teased him out loud about Richie. Of course, Bill gave him little pokes or looks or grins, but he wouldn't dare shout it to the rooftops. Not after Eddie's near meltdown in the alley by McCrory's.

He wasn't sure exactly what that had been, really. It had been like an asthma attack— he had _thought_ it was an asthma attack. But his inhaler hadn't helped, and Bill's presence had. That only made him more nervous about the whole fake medicine thing.

The episode he'd had with his mother hadn't gone unpunished; after throwing down his pill bottle, calling it fake, disobeying Sonia to her face— he'd been grounded for weeks. Months. Now, that didn't necessarily mean he'd followed the rules of the grounding. But it was, as they say, the thought that counted. His mother had gotten mostly over it by now, but she still got passive aggressive whenever his medicine was brought up in detail. Now he wasn't sure what to believe. Was he sick, or was he... not? Did he believe Greta and Richie _(crazy that they actually agree on something for once)_ or did he believe his own mother?

This was bad timing. He was supposed to be having _fun!_ He was with his friends! He could think about depressing shit like this later— though it always seemed like he was telling himself to _'think about it later'_ and then never actually following through.

 _Okay._ He could deal with this. He could get past this. He just needed to stop thinking about medicine. And Richie. It would be fine. There was no reason to worry about anything. _Breathe, breathe, breathe._ If he could ignore the fuzzy feelings, the scattered thoughts, and the uneven pitter-patter of his pulse, the rest of the night would be fine. And maybe, just maybe, he figured as he walked back into the living room, he wouldn't have an existential crisis over Richie Tozier. _Great. Sounds good._

He took two steps into the living room and immediately came to the horrible realization that there was no way any of the previously mentioned plan would be happening. After all, there was no ignoring it when Richie laid down, limbs sprawling out everywhere, on the Twister mat that one of the other Losers had set on the ground. "Greetings, Edward Spaghedward. Currently I am—"

"Hey, Eddie," Ben said with a wave, making the short brunet aware of the two new kids present in the room.

"Hi. And hi, Mike." _When the fuck did they get here? Oh, right. I was in the kitchen having a crisis. Sounds about right._ He glanced back down to Richie, raising an eyebrow.

"Are they done yet?" Richie whined.

"Yes, Richie. What is so unbelievably important that you have to tell me right now or you'll combust?"

"We're gonna— or I'll what?"

"Combust. Find it in the dictionary."

"Never." Richie smiled up at him. "That's why I have you as my slave to do it for me." Eddie flipped him off, and lo and behold, Richie kept going. "We're gonna play Twister."

"Oh, really? I had no idea," Eddie replied dryly. "It's not like the game is out or anything. Or like you're literally laying on the fucking mat. It's not like I'm staring at the mat that‘s right in front of my fucking face—"

"Oh my god, shut up, dickwad," Richie laughed, reaching up to take Eddie's hand with little warning. Eddie braced himself to pull Richie up, but the boy stayed firmly planted on the ground, instead pulling Eddie off of his feet. The brunet was sent sprawling across the mat next to Richie with a soft gasp.

"Richie! That was fucking dangerous. You know I could've broken something, right? You know—"

Richie rolled over onto his side, meeting Eddie's eyes with a shit-eating grin. "Yep. I know."

Eddie wrinkled his nose. "Fuck you."

"Take me out to dinner first."

"Richie, the amount of times you've used that line," Eddie said as he got to his feet, "is a number no kid can even count to."

"It's a great line." Richie picked up the spinner board from the floor, glancing down at it and then throwing it across the room at Bill. "Billiam! Spin for us!"

"No, n-no, no— shit, ow! Shit," Bill sighed, looking up from his game; he'd just lost because of the distraction. His eyes fell on the board, and he rubbed the side of his head where it had hit. "W-What?"

"I said,” Richie replied, “spin for our Twister game!”

"Richie," Bill said slowly, his face contorting with increasing confusion, "I'm _colorblind."_

Richie grinned brightly.

"Good!"

—

After three nonchalant but simultaneously insanely awkward matches of Twister— in which even Stanley looked away from his bird magazine long enough to participate— Eddie was getting a little bored, and he could tell the others felt the same. That was, aside from Richie, who was still cheering like it was Christmas Day.

"One more match. Pleeeease?"

"Fine," said Mike, "but then we start the movie. Agreed?"

"Okay!" Richie pointed dramatically to Ben. "Haystack, your turn to spin."

Ben shrugged, grabbing the spinner. Eddie had a feeling he didn't mind spinning instead of playing. He didn't look like he was having the time of his life out on the mat.

The thing about Twister was that it was made for two to four people to play at once. And not just any people— it was made for two to four children to play. It was safe to say that six young teenagers didn't fit very well on one mat together.

So that was why Stanley Uris owned four separate sets of Twister. Stan had only had one in the beginning, but after the preteens decided they'd grown out of it, three of the other Losers had asked for the game, too. Eddie hadn't been able to; he knew his mother would've turned him down immediately. The kinds of things he got for Christmas were socks and underwear and pill planners. Like a grandma, he always thought.

But that was irrelevant now. What _was_ relevant was that they had pushed the coffee table up against the wall, broken out the other copies of the game, and taped the mats together. Now that there was someone mastering the spinner that wasn't colorblind (Bill was a great spinner, but his abilities to distinguish between red and green were slim to none), the game would go a little smoother.

"Left hand red," said Ben, so Eddie did exactly that, quietly avoiding Stan's hands and moving his hand to a red spot on the mat. Richie was edging closer and closer into Eddie's personal bubble, which Eddie assumed was pretty hard to avoid doing even if there were four mats, considering there were six of them to split the space. No, the thing that was annoying was that Eddie could tell that Richie was doing it on purpose.

Example A: Richie reached across Eddie's right arm, sticking his hand down right on the red spot that was under Eddie's chest. The brunet lifted his head, wrinkling his nose, and Richie smirked.

"Hey there, Spaghetti Head. As you can see, I'm a Twister master."

"Uh huh," Eddie replied dryly. "I sure can see that." As retaliation, when Ben gave the next order— right foot blue— Eddie stretched as far as he could go. He planted his foot on the inside of Richie's foot, overlapping their legs.

"Oh? Have you become a Twister master, too, Eddiekins?"

"No, Bitchie. Unfortunately, I have better things to do with my time than perfect my Twister strategies."

"Touché." Rather than get angry, Richie grinned, and Eddie felt like his insides had turned to Jell-O.

"Left hand green, guys," Ben repeated.

"Yeah, guys, left hand green," Bev heckled.

"You're just mad we made you play Twister," Richie laughed. And with that, he reached all the way across Eddie's back, setting his hand down on the green space on the other side. Eddie was sure his face was pink by now, so he avoided looking at anyone.

"That's cheating," Mike observed.

"No way! I'm the Twister master, not you," Richie said.

"Do-Does it really m-matter?" said Bill.

"Fair enough."

"See? Big Bill gets it." Richie stuck his tongue out. "And I'm sure Eds doesn't mind."

"Not my name," Eddie murmured. He would've said more, but Richie's chest grazed against his back, and his cheeks grew red hot again. Luckily, he was saved from further harassment when the phone rang. "I'll get it!" he announced quickly (and a little aggressively). Carefully, he untangled himself from Richie and popped to his feet, wiping his slightly sweaty hands on his track shorts.

He finally reached the phone, letting out a breath of relief when he picked it up off the receiver. "Hello, Uris residence," he greeted the person on the other line. "How can I help you?"

"Eddie, you sound like a secretary," Richie snickered from behind him. Eddie ignored him.

Relief quickly turned to dread when he heard the voice on the other line. "Oh, perfect, you're already here, Eddie Bear."

If he was going by honesty, he had told his mother he'd be back by seven thirty, even though that wasn't what he planned on at all. Eddie leaned over to check the clock and grimaced. _It's already ten minutes past._ "Hi, Mommy," he answered quietly, lowering his voice so the other Losers wouldn't hear. "Um, what's wrong?"

"You're late."

"Oh. Am I?" Eddie feigned shock. "I’m sorry. Umm... well, I guess can I have an extension, then?"

"To eight?" Sonia clearly wasn't fucking around. Eddie was going have to beg pretty hard to get out of this one.

He winced. "Actually, I was thinking eight... tomorrow morning."

Even by merely the tone of her voice, Eddie could tell she thought he was being ridiculous. "What? No. You didn't pack overnight clothes."

"I can borrow Stan's. Or Richie's."

"Wearing other people's clothes? Eddie, thats disgusting. You shouldn't be doing that. Are you doing that?"

Eddie looked down at the shirt he had stolen from Richie two weeks ago that he still hadn't given back yet.

"No, of course not."

"Good." And just when Eddie thought he was off the hook, there was more. "I want you home by eight tonight, Eddie Bear."

 _What?_ There was no way he was going to do that. He was busy. He was hanging out with his _friends!_ Eddie took a deep breath. "Um, I don’t think I can do that, Mommy."

"What?"

"I said no," he said again, a small tremor invading his voice. "I'm not gonna be home by eight tonight. I'll be home by eight tomorrow morning."

"Edward Kaspbrak," Sonia began, and Eddie's stomach dropped. Usually, if his mother started a lecture with his full name, that meant he'd end up crying by the end. "I am your mother. I know what's best for you, and you know that. You need to come home tonight. You need to take your medicine and go to sleep at your bedtime."

"No," Eddie said again, this time stronger. "No. You're _always_ telling me what to do." The more he spoke, the more courage he got. "You never let me do _anything._ I'm playing a game and watching a movie with my friends. I'm not gonna _die."_

"What game?" Sonia asked. Then, sharper: _"What_ movie?"

Eddie took a breath. At least she was budging about the sleepover thing, but... He didn't have a lie prepared, and he knew his mother would have a fit if she knew he was playing Twister. Luckily, he wasn't that bad of a liar, even if he didn't have one prepared. "Just a board game. Stratego. And—" he couldn't admit to the R-rated action movie they were about to watch, either— "Scooby-Doo. You know, the 1987 one." He sucked in a breath, twirling the phone cord nervously. The lies hadn't been that bad, but he was pretty sure his voice might've been shaking. _Shit._

"Eddie Bear?" she asked, and just like that, he was susceptible to her command again.

"Y-Yes, Ma?"

"Are you _lying_ to me?"

Eddie was tearing up. He could feel it happening. He swallowed the lump in his throat as best he could, but it was still hard to force out even a single word. "No."

"Eddie?" Richie was asking from across the room. Eddie shook his head, a very tiny movement. "Eds, what's wrong?" Eddie shook his head again, harder this time. He ignored Richie after that, staring numbly at a spot on the carpet while his mother spoke to him.

"Oh, that's right. Silly me. I almost forgot," Sonia exclaimed, "Eddie would never lie to me. My own son wouldn't lie to me. He loves me very much and he _respects_ me."

A small whimper came from the back of Eddie's throat.

"You wouldn't lie to me, baby, right? Right, Eddie Bear? No, you wouldn't lie." It was like she knew exactly what to say to get him to fess up.

Eddie choked back a sob. "Mommy, I—"

"You're lying, Eddie. You're _lying._ You're being a terrible son right now, do you know that? Don't you want to be a good son for me, Eddie, honey? Don't you want me to be happy?"

Eddie couldn't answer. Fuck answering— Eddie could barely _breathe._ His throat burned with the familiar ache of tears. If he spoke any more, he was going to cry. His eyes found Richie— worried, concerned, compassionate Richie, who was across the room. Who was currently scrambling to his feet, coming closer and closer and asking, "Eddie, hey, are you okay?"

"Yes," Eddie whispered. He wasn't sure which question he was answering— Sonia's or Richie's.

"That's right, honey," Sonia was saying. "You don't have to lie to me. Lying makes me very sad. I know don't want me to be sad." He could hear the forced smile in her words. His chest ached when he pictured it in his mind. "So tell me the truth now. What are you really doing, baby?" she asked, her words dripping with venom. "What game are you playing?"

Eddie shuddered. "I'm—" He muffled a sob with his free hand. Something tapped his shoulder, and he jerked back, glancing up in alarm. When he found Richie standing there, he pulled the phone away from his ear and covered it with his hand, eyes wide. "What— What are you doing?"

"What are you doing?" Richie asked. "Who is it? Are you okay?"

Too many questions. He could hear his mother's voice calling, beckoning faintly from the phone. He had to answer. He had to say something. His hands were shaking, barely able to hold the phone properly.

He couldn't breathe.

He glanced to Richie for help, and the curly-haired boy jumped to action, taking an exaggerated breath. Eddie followed his guide as best he could, breathing along with Richie. A few seconds went by, and his mother's tone grew quicker and louder from the phone.

Eddie finally lifted the phone back to his ear, his hand still shaking like a leaf. "I already _told_ you," he interrupted her angry ranting.

"Eddie, you need to come home _right—"_

"I'll be home at _eleven_ tomorrow morning, Mom," Eddie interrupted again. He slammed the phone back into the receiver, and that was that. That was now officially the second time Eddie Kaspbrak had stood up to his overbearing mother.

_That fucking sucked._

To make matters worse, because the universe seemed to love torturing him, the tears were still on their way, and Richie was standing in front of him, confused and concerned as all hell. "Eds," he coaxed softly. "I need you to talk to me. I don't know what's wrong."

Eddie shrugged loosely. _God, I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me, either. If someone could please let me know, that would be great._

"Was it Mrs. K on the phone?" Richie asked, even though Eddie was sure he already knew the answer. Eddie nodded to confirm it anyway, and before he knew it, he was letting quiet tears roll down his face. He stepped forward anxiously, his hands lifting, and Richie was there for him like he always was.

Richie took his arm gently, guiding him to the bathroom so the rest of the Losers didn't see him crying. Eddie sniffled, eyes staying low; Richie leaned his back against the bathroom door, so Eddie rested his ear against the taller boy's chest. All he did was cry. His hands balled into fists, gripping the material of Richie's blue, green, and yellow flower print shirt. (It was hideous, but while he'd never admit it, the Hawaiian patterns had been growing on Eddie.) In return, Richie wrapped his arms around Eddie. One of his hands came up unsurely and carded once through his hair. When Eddie said nothing, Richie ran his fingers through his soft brown hair again.

While Eddie sobbed silently, he mentally ran through everything he wanted to say to Richie out loud when he was done crying. _Yes, it was my mom on the phone, and the problem is that you were right. She's crazy. I’m pretty sure my medicine is fake. My inhaler_ might _be fake. I don't even know if I'm really sick, I don't know if I believe that anymore. I don't know_ anything. _I want to get away from her. I want to move out but I can't. I'm too young. Oh, yeah, and I really, really like you. Like,_ really. _Like, as more than a..._

When he finally did say something, it was none of that. "Sorry," he simply muttered, leaning back a little and wiping his eyes.

"It's okay. Don't feel bad." Richie's arms didn't move from around his sides yet. "You all done?"

Eddie took a deep breath. _In, two, three, four, out, two, three, four._ "Yeah. I'm finished."

"Way to show off your English skills," Richie said, but he was grinning. _So that's probably good, right?_ Eddie would admit, he was a little disoriented. He let Richie's arms slip away even though he really didn't want them to. Thankfully, Richie reached up and used his thumbs to wipe Eddie's cheeks, right under his eyes. "There. You're doing good. Just keep breathing, okay?" Eddie only nodded. Richie didn't make any jokes, and while it was a little jarring to hear him so serious, Eddie appreciated the effort. "There's my Eddie Spaghetti," the raven-haired boy teased when Eddie smiled. "You okay? You good?"

"Don't forget to ask me again five seconds from now for the fiftieth time," Eddie remarked.

"Hey, fuck you. I'm trying to help." Richie flashed his signature grin, but it soon faded to something a little more solemn. "I take it you don't wanna talk about it."

"Uh." He glanced to the floor. Wasn't the whole point of a best friend that you told them everything? He weighed his options. Talking about his mother seemed terrifying in the moment, so, like the coward he was, Eddie shook his head. "No. Sorry, Chee."

Richie shrugged. "It's fine. Tell me when you're ready. Or not at all. You don't have to. I mean, you can if you want—"

"Richie," Eddie stopped him with a tiny smile. "I got it."

"Okay. Okay." Richie exhaled, regarding him carefully. "And you're okay?"

Eddie nodded. He would've felt guilty for lying, but the fact of the matter was that he wasn't exactly sure if he was lying or not. On one hand, there was the looming threat of his mother. On the other... He was pretty sure that it was safe to say Richie would be here to support him for as long as he needed him to. "Thank you."

"Yeah, Eds, no sweat." Richie's dimple showed when he grinned again, and Eddie felt butterflies rising in his stomach. _Great. It's just one damn thing after another, isn't it?_

"Don't call me Eds," he said for what had to be the hundredth time that day.

"Only if you call me Chee more often."

Eddie's face flushed. _Shit. Shit. Shit._ He stared at Richie's expectant face for a few more seconds before blurting, "I have to pee, fuckwad."

Richie placed a hand against his heart. "I'm wounded, Eddie, my love! And right after I helped you, too."

Normally, Eddie would've snorted. Right now, he did not. His face grew hotter. His palms grew clammier. "Really, get out before I piss on you."

"Sure thing." With a wink, Richie opened the bathroom door and disappeared, leaving Eddie to his own roaring thoughts.


	13. Richie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie and Eddie’s trip to the arcade is turned sour by ever-present disgrace to humanity Henry Bowers.

"Eddie, I don't think aggressive hand movements count as a sport. Hey— ow! Don’t attack me for being right!”

"I _have_ played a sport. I did volleyball for a year, asshat," said Eddie after sitting up and reaching over to give Richie's curls a hefty tug. Richie already knew that. Eddie had been on the boys' volleyball team back in seventh grade. A year was a bit of a stretch, though; Eddie had come home with floor burn from the gym’s sleek floor one time and Sonia had forced him to quit the team. Richie could still remember the night they’d gone out and gotten ice cream after that, watching Eddie shed furious tears and rant about how unfair it was.

Eddie laid back down in the other end of the hammock and peered into the box of Whoppers he was eating out of, narrowing his eyes. "Did you eat some of these while I was gone earlier?"

"No," Richie lied, grinning over at him from the other side of the hammock. "Those are nasty." He swung the hammock back and forth, listening to the soft creaking it made. The clubhouse wasn't normally hot, since it was underground, but today was another record-breaking temperature day. Sharing the hammock with Eddie didn't exactly help him _cool off,_ but he wouldn't have it any other way. Eddie's legs were thrown on top of his, one of Richie’s hands on his calves, and Richie couldn't say he minded. _That's weird,_ his brain tried to whisper to him. But he'd come prepared. _Bev doesn't think it's weird. Stan doesn't._ It worked like magic. The thoughts disappeared. Then Eddie was speaking again, making his insides turn to mush.

"Says you. Stop rocking the hammock, asshole, you're gonna give me a stomachache," Eddie scolded, and Richie chuckled, ceasing the movement of his body. Apparently, Sonia had tried to keep him home again. Richie had heard all about it when Eddie had first shown up. Two days had passed since the sleepover incident, and Eddie was supposed to be grounded until school started. Instead of following the rules, he had summoned up the courage (his words, not Richie's) to sneak out of his room, slide down the railing on the stairs, and creep out his kitchen window so that the front door didn’t make any noise. A little risky, but he insisted that the ends justified the means, and Richie found it cute that Eddie would rather _break out of his house_ than not be able to hang out.

In fact, Richie was beginning to think he was a bit of a bad influence on Eddie.

"Listen, I don't think you get it. Those are so bad. They're— what the fuck is a malted milk ball? Define _malted."_ Eddie floundered for words, and Richie laughed. He was a little surprised Eddie hadn't come prepared with a dictionary definition to spit off the top of his head. The two topics Eddie knew the most about were food nutrition facts and facts about sicknesses he would never get. "See? Point proven. What the fuck? Gross." Richie was a huge liar. He loved Whoppers just like Eddie, and he knew Eddie knew. It was fun to pretend he wasn't a candy thief, though, and Eddie clearly didn't mind playing along.

Besides, what Richie was really a sucker for was vanilla. Eddie knew that, too. Eddie also used vanilla-scented lotion. Coincidence? _Perhaps._ Richie couldn't be sure. All he knew for certain was that Eddie knew a lot of weird obscure preferences Richie had. Eddie's memory was a lot better than his— it always had been.

"Whatever," the brunet huffed. "Let's get the fuck out of here, dude. It smells like smoke in here." Eddie shot him a glare. _Jesus, Eds. If looks could kill, I'd be a dead man._

"Yeah, yeah," Richie sighed, "I need to quit smoking. Uh huh. I get it. You know I hear it every day, Dr. Kaspbrak."

"Yeah? So why haven't you actually _tried_ it yet?"

"Fuck off." Richie extended his leg to poke Eddie in the chest with his foot. Eddie rolled his eyes. "Come on, I wanna go play Street Fighter."

"Really? Again?"

"Yeah, _again._ Gotta train until I can beat Connor." Richie winked, but he didn't move, savoring the last few sweet moments until Eddie threw his legs over the side of the hammock and stood instead.

The short boy pulled a face, though, at the name mentioned. "Who's _Connor?"_

"He's my—"

Eddie interrupted. "You don't mean Connor _Bowers,_ do you? Henry's cousin?" Richie didn't answer, shrugging loosely. Eddie crossed his arms almost defensively, and Richie bit back a smile, knowing it would only get him into more trouble. "Why are you hanging out with _him?"_

Richie lifted himself from the hammock with a raised eyebrow. "Dude, chill. He's my friend. He's not like them." He didn't mention the gay awakening Connor Bowers had given him, or the time Henry had walked by while Connor and Richie were playing Street Fighter. He didn't mention the time Connor had followed by Henry's example and called him the same slur Henry always went for. He didn't mention that he hadn't played with Connor at the arcade since that day— or that that day had been _months_ ago. Richie even neglected to mention that he and Connor weren't even _friends_ anymore.

_Just leaving out a few simple details._

"He sucks ass, dude. He's only your friend when nobody else is looking," Eddie voiced his disapproval. _Damn right, Eds._ Unfortunately, to avoid admitting to his lies, he couldn't say that.

"And your point is...?" Richie said instead, reaching up to pull the ladder to the clubhouse down. Eddie still had trouble with it; he was almost tall enough, but he had to stand on his tiptoes, and his balance wasn't great.

"My point is, he's a shit friend!" Eddie sliced his hand through the air to solidify the message. "You should drop him!"

 _I already did! Well, it was more like_ him _dropping_ me _instead._ Richie pulled at the collar of his shirt like he always did when he was lying. He needed to break that habit soon. "He's not that bad. He's... cool. It's not like it has to be a _public_ friendship." Richie swallowed hard and shook his head as if it would clear his thoughts. He climbed the ladder, up and away from Eddie and into clean air, where, unfortunately, it was even hotter.

"Really, Richie, I don't think—" Eddie began as he followed, but Richie was tired of thinking about Connor and their failed friendship by now, so he interrupted.

"C'mon, Eds, just let it go."

"That's _not_ my name,” Eddie snapped back. _Fuck. I pissed him off._ The short brunet never put that much force into those words unless he was actually mad. Eddie pulled the ladder up when he'd reached surface level, closing the trapdoor behind him and then reaching into his fanny pack to pull his hand sanitizer out. As they started walking, he scrubbed it over his hands up to his elbows. Richie watched the whole time— it was oddly calming. "Whatever, Chee. You do you, I guess," Eddie sighed after a moment's hesitation, and the nickname made Richie's heart skip a beat. _Okay, so maybe he's not really that mad anymore._

"Or _you_ do me," Richie teased, leaning away to avoid Eddie's hands coming after him to hit his shoulder.

"You're fucking disgusting, dude," said Eddie. "You probably have AIDS."

"I don't have fucking AIDS!" Richie laughed. _I'm a virgin. I'm fourteen._ But that was no fun to joke about. “And if I do, I must've gotten it from your mom."

Eddie frowned deeply. “Shut up, Richie,” he replied, ever defensive of his mother. God, Richie was really getting tired of it.

"No can do, Edaroonie!" Richie lifted his hand for a high five, and Eddie karate chopped him in the back of the neck instead. Richie's shoulders came up to protect himself, and he laughed again.

"Yeesh,” said Eddie, “that’s a new one."

“Bullying you is my favorite hobby."

"Fuck you!"

Richie waited one second. Two seconds. _Come on, Tozier, you can do this._ But no— he couldn't resist. He blurted, "You wish," and accepted the poke Eddie gave him afterwards with a beaming smile.

"I hate you so much," complained Eddie.

"No you don't."

Eddie sighed. "No I don't."

—

Richie sighed contentedly at the cold blast of air that hit his face when they stepped into the arcade. "Home sweet home," he said with a grin. Eddie shook his head, but the shorter boy was in the lead anyway. He knew exactly how to get to the Street Fighter machine from walking back and forth from it countless times, mostly with Richie.

"You're obsessed, you know that?" Eddie scoffed.

"Sure do, baby." Richie reached over to tousle Eddie's hair, and the other boy let him, but ducked away soon after. Richie smirked and dug around in the pocket of his cargo shorts to find out how many quarters he had. "Ugh, I think I'm almost out." He saved the change he got from everything— even his _parents'_ quarters. It was hard to get a lot, though.

"How much _do_ you have?" Eddie asked, turning around and setting his hands on his hips.

Richie gave up trying to fight around the other items and pulled his hand out of his pocket, exposing everything he'd been carrying on his person. He started picking through the mess, shoving things back into his pocket left and right. "Two pennies, a paper clip, a tissue—"

"Ew!"

"Oh, shut up, I didn't even use it. Uhh..." Richie glanced down at his hand. Now there were only a bunch of quarters and a piece of paper. He narrowed his eyes, starting to unfold it, but he panicked when he finally remembered what it was.

Eddie was already leaning over his shoulder, though, squinting. "What's that?"

Richie quickly pulled the drawing to his chest, letting several coins drop in the process. Eddie didn't need to know that Richie carried around the new drawing he'd made for him. After the first one got stolen by Bowers, Richie wasn't taking any chances. He kept a close eye on this new drawing. Which was fine when nobody knew about it! Except Eddie was the artist, so that was _embarrassing,_ and maybe Richie was a little scared Eddie would make fun of him. "None of your business."

"Rich, you fucking idiot." Eddie crouched to scoop up the mess Richie had created as the curly-haired boy himself stuffed the drawing back into his pocket (carefully). _Wow. Fantastic. Great going, Tozier._

It was an embarrassing situation. However, Richie Tozier didn't get mortified. Richie Tozier wasn't one to feel shame. Richie Tozier said and did whatever he wanted whenever he wanted to. And when he finally had to face the consequences for his words and actions, he laughed in the face of trouble, so much so that it dragged him deeper and deeper into unknown territory, until finally, Richie had tarnished his reputation and lowered everyone's expectations enough that it didn't matter what he did anymore.

In short, Richie wasn't supposed to _let on_ that he was embarrassed.

So he snorted as Eddie got back to his feet. "Look! My brilliance created a system for us. You use those, and I'll use these," the taller boy laughed. Eddie shook his head.

"It's _your_ money."

"And I'm treating you to some arcade games,” Richie replied questioningly, but Eddie still looked so confused. Richie tilted his head, the guilt already beginning to squeeze his shoulders. "Did you really think I was gonna force you to play Street Fighter the entire time?" Eddie remained silent, and Richie laughed. Internally, he felt awful. _Am I really that stifling?_ "Dude, go play whatever you want."

He realized he was sorely mistaken when Eddie finally spoke up. "You know you don't force me to play games, right?"

"What do you mean?" Richie was good at playing dumb, but that wasn't what was happening right now. He was genuinely confused.

"You never _force_ me to do anything." Eddie toed at the ground awkwardly, and Richie gave him a moment to put his thoughts into words. "I mean, I act like you do. But I _like_ hanging out with you, Richie. I wouldn't _be_ here if I didn't want to play Street Fighter with you." 

_Oh my god. Stop. You sap. I'm going to cry._ Richie opened and closed his mouth, a smile tugging at his lips. "Oh. Okay,” he replied stupidly, unable to think of a proper joke.

"So." Eddie crossed his arms, the five quarters Richie had dropped still balled up in one of his hands. "You're gonna teach me how to play, right?"

"Yeah, Eds," said Richie with a grin. "Sure. I'll teach you how to play." He tousled the boy's hair with his free hand, dumping the quarters back into the pocket that wasn't full of junk. "Come here and I'll show you the ropes. After all, I _am—"_

"An expert." Eddie smirked, and Richie's heart burst into flames. "Yeah, I know you are." 

So that was exactly how it went down. Eddie popped a quarter into the machine, and Richie showed him how to play against the AI, defeating one of the robot-controlled players in only a matter of minutes.

"And that's it," Richie finished up, leaning back from the screen to look at Eddie's wide eyes. "You got any questions?"

"Uhh." Eddie definitely _looked_ like he had questions, and a lot of them at that. If he did, though, he didn't ask them. The brunet shook his head, and Richie moved to the side, out of his way.

"Okay, you try." Richie gave him as encouraging of a grin as he could muster, setting his hands on his hips. "You'll be great. Don't worry about it."

"Okay?" Eddie responded unsurely, popping a quarter into the machine, setting his hands on the controls, and starting a new match.

Eddie was _not_ great, as it turned out. In fact, it only took him twenty-two seconds to lose his first match. He sighed, glancing back to Richie, who was stifling giggles. When Eddie glared at him, Richie gave up, laughing out loud. "Listen, Eds, you have to admit, that was hilarious." Eddie offered a tiny smile and Richie knew he'd won.

"I don't learn by watching, I learn by hands on experience," Eddie huffed. "Let me try again."

"You're a waste of my quarters." Richie laughed again, leaning forward to shove another twenty-five cents into the slot. 

"And you're a waste of my brain cells, but I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Eds gets off a good one."

"It's Eddie." The brunet tried again, furiously button mashing while Richie yelled not-so-helpful hints at him from the side. It was painful to watch; Eddie's character got his ass kicked for the second time, and the boy kicked the bottom of the machine with a frustrated groan.

"Hey, be gentle. That's my baby you're abusing," scolded Richie.

"Rich, you don't _own_ the arcade. This Street Fighter is public property." 

"How do you know? Maybe I'm a secret millionaire," Richie countered, sticking a coin in and motioning for Eddie to try again.

"Bullshit," retorted Eddie as his hands fell onto the controls. "If you were rich, you'd be buying me shit left and right just to spoil me."

"The good news is: I _am_ Rich!" Eddie rolled his eyes at the pun. Richie, satisfied with this reaction, smirked and kept going. "The bad news is that I'm actually broke if you don't count these quarters." Richie fished another out of his pocket. He set it on top of his thumb and then flipped it up into the air, catching it again a second later. "But nobody ever counts their arcade quarters." He leaned forward to watch over Eddie's shoulder. "Are you getting obliterated yet?"

"Huh, I didn't know you knew any words longer than four letters." Eddie grunted, jerking the stick to the side and slamming his hand into the button four times in a row. It worked; he got in a quick combo attack. "Yes!"

"Sure do, baby," said Richie for the second time that day. As long as it continued to have no romantic connotation, it would roll off his lips smoother than butter. "Just like my favorite word. Epitome."

"You're _distracting_ me, jackass." Eddie leaned forward, tongue caught between his teeth and sticking out just slightly, and while he was distracted, Richie circled around to his side to get a better view. _Wow._ The boy's eyes were filled with so much focus it was admirable.

Unfortunately, he died a few seconds later anyway.

"Fuck!" Eddie swore, banging a fist against the top of the machine. Richie winced, trying to be optimistic. _At least he's not punching the screen like a psychopath._

"Relax, Spaghetti, baby—"

"Stop that.”

"—I'm sure you'll learn soon."

"How many quarters do we have to waste to get to _'soon,'_ Rich?" Eddie whined.

"'We?' These are _my_ quarters—"

"Yeah, yeah." Eddie lifted a foot and knocked it into his shin. "Shut the fuck up. You’re the one who was trying to give me some earlier.”

"You know, you’re probably losing ‘cause you keep picking _Ryu,"_ Richie snorted.

"What the fuck are you talking about? He's the best one," Eddie fought back.

"Eddie, darling, Ryu sucks ass. You should play Dhalsim."

"I can't deal with his long ass stretchy arms!”

"Just like spaghetti noodles, right? It's a match made in heaven." He laughed while Eddie grumbled. On the inside, he tried to think of ways that would help Eddie get the hang of it faster, and without wasting as many quarters. Miraculously, Richie was the one to come up with an idea. "You said you learn better when it's hands-on, right?"

Eddie nodded. "Yeah, if I only hear the instructions said out loud, my brain kinda doesn't get it." He shrugged. "So that's probably why I'm doing so shitty."

Another grin popped onto Richie's face. "Okay, turn around and don't move."

Eddie narrowed his eyes. "What are you planning?" he asked slowly, but he still did what he was told, turning back around to face the machine. Richie was amazed by the amount of trust Eddie had in him considering the shit he did on a daily basis.

"Just hold still, asshole." Richie came forward, and so did his hands. He reached around Eddie's sides and set his pale hands overtop Eddie's. "Now I can show you," he explained happily. _And I get a little treat for myself, too._

His warm hands fit over Eddie's freezing ones nicely, guiding them back to the controls. "W-What are you even d-doing?" Eddie sputtered.

"Helping!"

"You're so weird," Eddie mumbled. It pulled at Richie's heartstrings. _Is that supposed to be endearing or... not?_ But Eddie was laughing soon, leaning his head back to rest it against Richie's shoulder, and relief flooded the taller boy's body. "If you're gonna show me, then hurry up and _show_ me!"

Richie took one moment to think about how close their faces were. It was a mistake. He turned pink and leaned his head away slightly, grinning back. "Alright, already." Maybe it was a little risky to do this in public, but it wasn't like anyone was paying attention. He just had to watch the door for Bowers and then he was good.

"Okay, so," Richie finally spoke, starting a new game up, "when he comes in for the close combat attack, you have to duck. Like this." He yanked the joystick down slightly, and on the screen, Ryu ducked.

"You're talking in my _ear,"_ Eddie giggled, his shoulder coming up slightly.

"Shut up and pay attention, you ticklish little bastard," Richie laughed back, leaning forward a little so his shoulder pressed into Eddie's. He gave some more quick commands, and if Eddie didn't do them immediately, Richie did it for him, showing him which buttons he needed to press and when.

That was the first time Eddie won a round of Street Fighter. Of course, it had mostly been Richie, but the next time Eddie played alone, he came a lot closer to winning. And then the final time, on Richie's last quarter, Eddie was so close. Richie tensed, sucking in a breath every time Eddie took a bit and came close to dying.

At the last second, his hand shot out, guiding Eddie's down and then hitting a button to make Ryu throw out a punch. He barely scraped by, winning with the tiniest amount of health points in his bar. Eddie started to turn to Richie, overjoyed at his success. Richie was distracted by the sight of Henry Bowers' eyes locking with his.

He yanked his hand away from Eddie's, staring as Henry entered the arcade and came straight for them. Richie's eyes flitted down to find Eddie, who looked a little hurt and a lot confused.

"What happened? You look like you just saw a ghost." Eddie's eyebrows shot up, and Richie could see him immediately assuming the worst. He leaned a little closer and whispered something about Pennywise that Richie wasn't all the way there to listen to.

The raven-haired boy just shook his head. "Worse," he squeaked out, grabbing Eddie's shoulder to turn him. Then Bowers was standing in front of them, staring them down with a wicked grin fueled by twisted sadism.

"Hey, look who it is. Girly boy—" the taller, older boy jabbed a finger into Eddie's chest— "and the fag." Henry turned on Richie, eyes glinting. Eddie looked like he wanted to say something, but whatever it was, it didn't dare come out. His lips remained clamped shut, face white. Richie was sure his own skin looked the same. "What? Aren't you gonna say anything?" Henry laughed, a cacophony of broken, humorless guffaws that made Richie nauseous.

What could he do? Last time he'd so much as run into Bowers, he'd paid for it hours later by being swung back and forth over the edge of the kissing bridge. That night still came back to haunt him in his nightmares sometimes, and though it wasn't nearly as bad as the ones he had about Neibolt from last year, it was still enough of a threat to scare him into submission. So there wasn't much he could actually do about the confrontation here. Reaching out for Eddie's hand like he wanted to would only cause more problems. Richie knew Eddie had frozen up like he tended to do in situations like these, so it was up to him to speak if either of them were going to have to answer. And it was beginning to look like they'd have to.

"Are you mute, you little shit?" Henry sneered, taking a step closer to Richie.

The raven-haired boy's blood ran cold, and he shrunk down, words shooting out of his mouth before he could stop them. "Maybe I’m mute, but my sense of smell is working fine, ‘cause I can smell the spit you used to style your mullet this morning."

It was a grave mistake— most times he opened his mouth were. Henry advanced on him, and Richie stumbled back until his back collided with the Street Fighter machine. He had nowhere to go, which Bowers soon proved to him by wrapping a hand in the collar of his shirt and lifting him off the ground. In front of his eyes, the image of Henry was broken by fragments of Pennywise's leering gaze staring him down every few seconds. His mind played tricks on him to remind him, cruelly, of the summer before. Richie began to squirm, whimpering once. "Please—"

"You wanna try that again, Tozier, you disgusting little freak?" Henry spat, his grip only tightening, and Richie began to kick his legs, his breaths picking up speed. "Or do you want me to break your tiny little spine over the edge of the bridge? Huh?" Richie glanced to Eddie. His only solace was in the fact that the brunet was fine and unharmed, albeit paler than paper and cowering against the edge of a pinball machine a few games over. Eddie made no move to help, and for a second, Richie hated his cowardly guts. But it all dissolved a moment later. _It's not his fault._

Richie's hands came up to pull at Henry's, his brows falling low over his eyes. "Let me g-go," Richie begged.

"That's right. Fucking beg." Henry bared his teeth. "You know we're still pissed at that shitbag little mama's boy over there, right? You're lucky we're not taking him and—"

Richie kicked his leg out. His toe made contact with Henry's chest. "D-Don't touch him," Richie stuttered, voice shaking. _Oh my god, Tozier, you must have a fucking death wish._

Even Eddie knew it was a stupid idea. "Richie," he finally said quietly from the side, "stop."

Richie didn't listen. He kept going, a surge of protectiveness over his Spaghetti Head overcoming him. "Don't— Don't even _look_ at him," he continued. If he hadn't been screwed before, he definitely was now.

Henry moved to press his back against the wall, eyes narrowing. "Listen up, you little shit," he hissed, his other hand curling into a fist. Richie prepared for the worst, body tensing as he braced himself. Before Bowers could get started, a surprising interruption put everything to a halt.

"Henry, _stop_ it," Connor Bowers cried from the doorway. Richie felt a shock run down his spine at the once familiar voice. 

"Connor, what the fuck are you doing here?" Henry growled, but he released his hold on Richie's shirt. The younger boy tumbled to the ground, his backside making harsh, undesired contact with the floor. He swore under his breath, but propped himself up on his elbows, and his eyes quickly found Henry again to assess the situation and determine how quickly he'd need to get the fuck out.

"Just leave them alone," Connor insisted, coming a bit closer. "I won't tell your dad. And I'll get you some cigs."

Gears turned in Richie's head at the mention of the father. He was aware that there had been a brush with death involving Henry Bowers, Oscar Bowers, and a pocket knife (rumors spread like wildfire at school). Mental hospital time had been served, too. During that small stretch, just a matter of weeks, the Losers had felt safe enough to go out in public alone as freely as they pleased. But then Henry had come back for good behavior, and there'd been hell to pay. Mike had suffered a particularly nasty attack back then.

Then his focus shifted to Connor's presence in general. Connor Bowers, whom he hadn't seen at the arcade in weeks. Months, even. _The nerve that gap-toothed idiot must have to show up now, right when I'm about to get my ass kicked. Again._ Even so, Richie couldn't help feeling a little grateful. He stared, frozen, as Connor approached Henry and tried to reason with him. _How dare_ Connor Bowers _save my damn hide?_

Richie was brought back to the present by feet padding across the linoleum floor, knees hitting the tiles with a thud, and cold, cold hands wrapping around his left arm. They squeezed gently. "Rich," Eddie whispered, leaning in close. "Richie."

"Hm." Richie pulled himself from his stupor to look Eddie over. "Yeah? What?" Connor and Henry's arguing faded into the background.

"Are you _okay?"_ Eddie whisper-yelled as if it were the most obvious question in the world, which, Richie figured, it kind of was. Eddie's hands rose, and his fingers brushed tentatively across the front of Richie's neck. Goosebumps rose across Richie's arms and legs. "Your neck is red." Richie glanced down, and though he was unable to see any evidence because his chin was in the way, he supposed that maybe it was a little red. Maybe a tiny bit bruised. It didn't bother him, though.

"'M fine. He barely put a scratch on me." Richie sat up the rest of the way, looking fondly— maybe a little too fondly for public— over at Eddie. "You?"

"He didn't even _touch_ me, Rich."

"He did one time. When he first showed up. He poked you," Richie insisted.

"I'm fine." While he spoke, Eddie poured hand sanitizer into his hands and rubbed them together furiously. Richie, mildly dazed from the encounter he'd just had, laughed a little.

"Really? We nearly got trashed and you're worried about _hand sanitizer?"_

"Beep _beep,_ you ass," Eddie replied, cheeks heating.

"Turns out I actually have more defining features than just my sweet, sweet ass, Edward." The best way for Richie to cling to sanity was quips.

What grounded him even more was Eddie hitting him gently in the shoulder like he always did. A source of familiarity made it hard to drift away again, so Richie came mostly to his senses, brow cinching. Eddie's gaze swept over him, and then, finally, the brunet looked up at the fight between the cousins again. Richie caught hints of worry in his eyes.

He reached over, flattening his palm against Eddie's shoulder. "It's okay, Eds. It's gonna be okay," he promised quietly.

"I should be telling _you_ that," Eddie laughed nervously, but he looked like he needed the support. Just like he had in the bathroom at Stan's house after his mom had called. Just like he had in his own bedroom in the middle of the night, right after Richie had— foolishly— almost been caught at the Kaspbrak residence. And, like both of those times and like always, Richie was more than willing to provide help.

Luckily, most of the attention had been dragged from the two of _them_ to the two Bowers cousins instead, to the point where there were no more intruding gazes. Enough so that Richie wrapped an arm around Eddie and pulled him closer. Enough that Eddie nestled against Richie's side, and they let the scene in front of them drag on.

"You promised you'd leave them _alone_ if they were in here," Connor's voice drifted to Richie's ears.

"Bullshit," Henry snapped back. "I'm not fucking _stupid,_ Connor, I know what I—"

"I have it on _recording!"_

Richie let their fight evaporate from his headspace. As much as he wanted to stay there, shielding Eddie with his body and letting the smaller boy stay curled up in his arms, he knew it was dangerous. They both knew it wasn't safe. So two minutes later, an unspoken agreement formed between them, and they quietly got to their feet. The argument a few feet away had turned to a screaming match. Thankfully, it kept the initial threat— Henry— occupied.

Richie guided Eddie to the back of the arcade, showing him the best spot to shimmy between machines and into the next aisle, from which they would make their escape. While the small boy squeezed through the limited amount of space, Richie leaned back once, finding Connor again. They locked eyes for a second, and complicated tension ran through the gaze. Neither had the courage to look away. Slowly, Richie nodded once. Forgiveness. Recognition sparked in Connor's eyes. He pulled his eyes away to fix them on Henry, interrupting him by screaming, "You're a monster! A fucking monster!" and Richie knew his forgiveness had not been misplaced.

Richie and Eddie were out the door no more than fifteen seconds later. They weren't followed, they weren't stalked, they weren't chased and cornered. They were two boys walking home, brushing pinkies, and sharing nervous, jittery laughter. And when they got to Eddie's house, and Sonia came out onto the porch and screamed at him like she always did for breaking the unfair rules of his grounding, Richie stood up and he took that little spark he'd seen in Connor's eyes and he made it his own, turning it into bravery and screaming right back. It was simple but effective; it stunned Sonia into silence, Eddie shot past her and into the house, and Richie went on his way as soon as he was sure he'd heard Eddie's door slam upstairs.

Sonia called his mom that night. Consequently, Maggie and Wentworth sat Richie down to have a long talk with him about respecting his elders. Thankfully, they didn't ground him, but the immeasurably boring "talk" was punishment enough. With both of the adult Toziers scolding him at once, a talk wasn't a talk— it was a lecture. Richie nodded his way through it, throwing in the occasional _'yeah'_ and _'right'_ and _'mhm'_ and sometimes even a meek, well-timed apology when he thought it would quell his parents' anger. He wasn't listening, though, and he damn well wasn't sorry, either.

Richie Tozier would _never_ be sorry for defending Eddie Kaspbrak.


	14. Eddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie needs Beverly’s help with an important task, and a rousing discussion about nail polish comes after.

Eddie swerved, pushing his selected grocery cart further down the aisle and making sure to avoid the crack in the tile that he always ran over when he wasn't paying attention. Today, the problem wasn't a lack of attention; no, it felt like there was _too much_ attention being paid. Eddie was so bored that he read every label of every can he passed in the aisle, whether it was Bush's Baked Beans or Del Monte Canned Corn.

He hated grocery shopping with a burning passion, but it was one of the only ways he could get out of the house when he was in trouble with his mother— which was often these days— if he didn't feel like being _'rebellious.'_ Sonia had actually _asked_ him to go out this morning for groceries. She'd left him two notes on the fridge before leaving for work. One listed all the medication he needed to take (he had obeyed), and, in a guilt-tripping _'don't you love your mommy?'_ type note at the bottom, the fact that he was to go only to the grocery store and nowhere else. The other was the grocery list.

His mother may have been overbearingly, stiflingly, and unnecessarily worried about his health and safety, but when it came to getting off her _own_ ass and actually doing chores, the only thing besides her actual day job that Sonia did was dishes. She was undeniably lazy, and Eddie had to remind himself constantly that this was the woman who had raised him. This was the woman he called his mother. This was the woman he was supposed to _love._

At times, that became kind of a difficult feat.

He sighed as he turned into the next aisle over, staring longingly at the cinnamon-sugar graham crackers and the Scooby-Doo shaped fruit snacks. He knew, though, that Sonia would never let him have junk food like that. Even though it was forbidden, he came closer, turning one of the boxes of fruit snacks sideways to read its nutrition facts. His eyes scanned ingredients Sonia had always said were bad for him, and he wrinkled his nose. _What does she know, anyway?_ And even if she _did_ know what was good for him, like she always advocated... what she _didn't_ know wouldn't hurt her.

Eddie glanced back and forth as if someone were going to see him and snitch on him. He only felt safe when nobody was around. He let his fingers curl gingerly around the edges of the box, and after a few more wavering seconds of uncertainty, he snatched it up quickly and tossed it into the cart, rearranging some items to hide it under the boring Kellogg's cereal he'd added to the cart for his mother. It made him feel a little safer to know that nobody but him would know about the secret fruit snacks. Nobody but him and maybe the Losers, but it wasn't like they'd stop him from having fruit snacks.

Eddie needed to continue on his errands, so he pushed the cart further forward, glancing down at the list in his hand. He had most of the items, and he frowned slightly, wondering if it was worth sticking around to search for all the little things Sonia wanted. However, he knew he'd get such a long lecture if he didn't do it that there was no point in avoiding it.

It didn't take him very long, thankfully, and once he had reached the checkout, he pulled the crumpled twenty dollar bill from his breast pocket to hand it over to the clearly bored cashier. He only had to carry three bags and his change, so he thanked the woman, put the cart back, and started out on his way home.

When he arrived, he was glad to find the house still vacant. It gave him anxiety to think about his mother coming home randomly to check on him, so he pushed the thought out of mind and began unbagging the groceries, rearranging things in the fridge and the cabinet. He set the fruit snacks aside, and when he finally finished with everything else, he crumpled the receipt up and shoved it far down into the trash, where his mother wouldn't find it. Then, naturally, he sanitized his hands, grabbed the fruit snacks, and ran to the stairs, taking them by two. When he got up to his room, he searched long and hard for a good hiding spot for a big box of Scooby-Doo fruit snacks.

He got a better idea, opening the box and dumping the twelve baggies out onto his bed. He grinned at them, glancing around his room. It was a lot easier to find twelve tiny hiding spots than it was to find one large one. Eddie went around his room hiding bags of fruit snacks in back corners of drawers, top shelves of his closets, and behind books on his shelf. He didn't stop until he had hidden all but one, which he held in his hand.

But another problem arose: the box. What was he going to do with the box? If he put it in the trash, his mother was going to see it. What else was there to do with it? He needed to phone a friend who was as sneaky as he was. Someone who had— or used to have— a parent they knew how to outsmart.

Eddie knew just the person.

Bag of fruit snacks still in hand, he grabbed his list of phone numbers from his drawer and then shot downstairs and into the kitchen like a rocket, stopping at the only phone in the Kaspbrak residence. He glanced down at the small piece of paper that held all the Losers' home phone numbers and his eyes searched for the one he needed; Richie's number was the only one he had memorized.

He dialed the number, and the phone began to ring. As he waited, his mind gravitated to Richie again, this time focusing on their friendship. Richie was one of the best friends he'd ever had. It was weird, since he'd used to be such close friends with Bill. In fact, Richie had used to annoy the living daylights out of Eddie. And he still did, but now it was a different type of annoyance. Eddie got irritated in a fond sort type of way. He was rarely ever truly mad at Richie.

Beverly's voice startled him out of his thoughts. "Hello?" She never announced the residence she lived in when she answered the phone, Eddie noticed. Maybe it was to get rid of the association with her dead father. Or maybe Eddie was looking too far into it and it was just because the only people that ever called her were the Losers, anyway. 

"Hey, Beverly," he greeted, "I need help."

"Yeah? What's up, Eddie?"

"So I kinda... I was at the store shopping for my mom, right? And I'm not really supposed to get anything other than what's on the list but I, uh, I got some fruit snacks." Eddie fidgeted with the phone cord, nervous as to what her reaction would be.

"Okay, go on," was all Beverly said, and Eddie was so grateful that she understood what it was like to ignore the rules of one's parents.

"Well, I hid them all over my room, but now I don't know what to do with the box. She's gonna see it if I throw it away," he sighed.

"Oh, easy. Just burn it."

"Burn it?" Eddie's eyes grew round as saucers. "Like, set it on fire? In my backyard?"

"Yeah, sure. That's what I used to do," Bev replied flippantly. "You got a lighter anywhere?"

"Maybe?" Jesus Christ, is she trying to kill me? "But that's dangerous. I could set something else on fire. And, like, there will be smoke, and that's probably gonna be really bad for my asthma... is there any other option?"

"Not unless you wanna walk half across town for a public trash can, which would be dumb," Bev mused. "I mean, you could... nah, that won't work." He heard rustling on the other end of the phone, and for a moment, he was worried, but it passed when she finally responded. "Here, let me just come over and help you. I might need a second, though."

She was coming over right after telling him it would be a waste of time for him to walk across town? _Isn't that kind of defeating the point?_ "Beverly, you don't have t—"

"Give me fifteen minutes." There was a click followed by a dial tone. Eddie lowered the phone to stare at it, mouth agape. _She hung up on me!_ He shook his head, setting the phone down and running back up to his room. He carefully put away his phone number list, grabbing another bag of fruit snacks for Bev and the box. Then he leapt down the stairs in search of the other thing he'd need— a lighter.

He doubted there was a pocket lighter for cigarettes just laying around; his mother had probably gotten rid of all of those after Frank Kaspbrak had died of lung cancer. But they had to have a regular lighter, he assumed, one for candles and the like. He pulled the kitchen junk drawer open, shaking his head as he rifled through the items.

_The shit I get myself into._

—

Eddie stared at the burning cardboard in front of them, his nose wrinkling. For the third time, he nearly unzipped his fanny pack for his inhaler, but he decided against it once more, leaving his hands on the ground behind him to support him as he sat. "You really used to do this all the time?" he asked.

"Yeah, dude. It was the easiest way to get rid of evidence of all the shit I wasn't supposed to have." Bev cracked a grin. "Which was a lot." Her dad, when he was alive, had been so controlling that Beverly had had to hide many things from him, which was why Eddie had called her in the first place. She was the best at knowing how to break the rules.

She sat beside him, her legs crossed and her elbows resting on her knees so her fists could support her head. Her bag of fruit snacks lay, definitely not forgotten, against her calf. Eddie glanced at it nervously. _What if a bug gets in there?_

He shook the thought away in favor of a more important question, cocking his head slightly. "And your dad didn't smell the smoke?" He wasn't as careful when asking about her father as he used to be. As soon as they had gotten on the same page about overbearing parental units, they had stopped sugarcoating their questions quite as much. Sure, the two hadn't hung out alone in awhile because of the whole _'I'm Eddie Kaspbrak and I'm jealous of Beverly because she hangs out with Richie'_ thing, but that didn't change the fact that they could feel comfortable being open with each other. Some of the secrets they shared were those that none of the other Losers knew. Besides, things were going back to normal now that she had assured him while doing his makeup, and now that Al Marsh was no more, Beverly found it easier to talk about it.

"He chain smoked," said Bev by way of explanation. "Couldn't tell the difference between cigarette smoke and fire smoke anymore."

"Makes sense." At least Beverly and Richie didn't _chain smoke—_ from what Eddie had seen, anyway. He reached out to run his hand over a patch of weeds and wondered when the lawn was going to get mowed. He couldn't remember the last time his mother had done it herself, and God forbid she _ever_ let Eddie touch anything as dangerous as a _lawn mower,_ so he had no idea how to work the damned thing. And thus the yard remained overgrown.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" Bev inquired, her bag of fruit snacks crinkling when she dug around for another one.

"The weeds in my backyard," Eddie replied honestly, a small smile jumping to his lips. "It's weird, I know."

"Nah, it makes sense." Beverly chewed her fruit snack up before continuing. "When you got parents like ours, you worry a lot about weird things kids shouldn't be worrying about."

"Interesting way to put it."

"It's true, though." Bev tilted her head back, staring up at the bright summer sky, and Eddie admired her from the side. She was beautiful, that was for sure. After all, he was pretty sure he still liked girls— if that was even possible, to like both. But even though he thought girls were the second most beautiful things in the world (losing first place to Richie Tozier, he had to admit), he didn't like Beverly like that. He loved her more than the stars, but not as anything more than his caring older sister.

"We're only fourteen," she continued, and he remembered he was supposed to be having a _conversation,_ not a sexuality crisis.

"Speak for yourself."

"Right. Sorry." Bev turned her head to wink at him. _"Most_ of us are only fourteen."

Eddie rolled his eyes. He hated being left in the dust when it came to birthdays. September was one of the shittiest months a guy could have a birthday in. He'd either be older than all his peers or younger, and his mother hadn't held him back like some parents did for _'maturity reasons.'_ That, he assumed, had probably been the persuasion of his father at work. So here he was, one of the youngest kids in his grade. He'd be two weeks into his first year of high school before he even turned fourteen.

"My point is," Beverly mused, her eyes returning to the sky, "it's kind of unfair, don't you think?"

"What's unfair?" Eddie couldn't keep his own head from tilting slowly, his eyes soaking in the clear blue sky.

"We had to take care of ourselves, 'cause our shitty excuses for parents couldn't do it by themselves." The words were bitter and harsh, yet Eddie resonated with them on a personal level. Guilt crept up onto his shoulders when he admitted to himself that he agreed with every word Beverly was saying. He was supposed to love his mother. He was supposed to respect her rules and what she wanted. But he wasn’t entirely convinced that she knew what was best for him. Not anymore. 

"Yeah," he breathed, watching the breeze carry away the wisps of smoke that curled up off of the fire. "It _is_ kind of unfair, isn't it?"

Bev only hummed encouragingly in response. Eddie would've laid down if he weren't so afraid of getting bugs in his hair. Beverly clearly had no such fears; she leaned the rest of the way back and flopped down against the ground a few seconds later. _Well, someone has to keep an eye on the fire, anyway,_ he reasoned. He was a little nervous about setting the tall weeds up in flames.

They remained that way, in a peaceful state of parentless silence, for several more minutes. Each time Eddie wanted to pull his inhaler out, he took deeper breaths and counted them out until his airway was free again. He was fairly certain that that wasn't how asthma was supposed to work. Calm breathing techniques weren't supposed to magically fix asthma attacks.

Did he even _have_ asthma?

 _Ugh._ He didn't have the energy to commit to _that_ train wreck of a thought today. Luckily, he was saved from spiraling by Beverly's boredom: "Come on, let's go inside. I'm tired of watching the fire." She hopped to her feet, but Eddie wasn't as quick to follow, standing up slowly and unsurely.

"Shouldn't we make sure it burns all the way out before we leave it unattended?"

"Not if we do this." Bev stepped forward to stomp on the fire a few times, leaving it nothing but a smoldering mess on the ground.

"Jesus, be _careful,_ Bev. You coulda burned yourself. Do you know how dangerous burns can be?" Eddie began. "And I don't even know if we have—"

"Yeesh. Your mom is really rubbin' off on you, Eddie," Bev cut in before he could finish.

Eddie sighed in defeat, shoulders slumping. That was the absolute _last_ thing he wanted. "God, I sure hope not."

"It's alright. It isn't your fault." She smiled warmly at him, and Eddie kicked himself internally for ever being jealous of her when she treated him so kindly. "Come on. I have a fun idea."

"If it involves makeup again," he warned, "we can't use my mom's, she always complains about how expensive it is."

"It's kind of like makeup," Beverly said, pulling the door open to let Eddie in.

"Kind of?"

"You'll see."

Ten minutes later, after a lot of digging around in the hall closet, Eddie's hands were splayed out on a paper towel on the kitchen table. He had insisted on the protective paper towel, and Beverly had commended him on the idea, told him it was smart, because Sonia would ask questions if they left bright stains on the table.

"What's the purpose of this again?" Eddie asked unsurely as Beverly unscrewed the cap of the tiny bottle in her hands.

"To look pretty." She lifted her eyes, fixing her strong gaze on him. He squirmed in his seat, awaiting the warning he knew would be next. "Don't you _dare_ say boys can't look pretty, too," Bev huffed, proving him right. He'd only said it once, but she was clearly making sure once didn't become twice. 

He shrugged loosely. "I guess I just don't get it. Being pretty is supposed to be for girls."

Beverly leaned forward in her seat, dragging the small brush across one of Eddie's tiny fingernails. The nail polish was shockingly cold; Eddie did have to admit, though, that he liked the shade of blue she was using. "Anyone can be pretty," Beverly said. She was always saying things like that. Eddie supposed that maybe growing up in such a restrictive household, where parents were against anything too unique, made it easier for one to be open-minded. He'd always been feeble in his beliefs, though, unsure whether to follow his own mother or his best friends.

"I thought..." Eddie took a second to mull it over. "I thought pretty boys were... you know."

"What do you mean?" Beverly asked, and although she didn't meet his eyes, he could tell hers had a mischievous glint in them. She knew what she was doing, forcing him to say it out loud like this.

"I thought pretty boys were fruits," he finally admitted. Calling people _fruits_ was the nicest way to put it, he figured, rather than using all the harsh and demeaning terms out there, like the one Eddie heard Henry Bowers say almost on a daily basis.

"And?" Beverly replied. Startled by this reaction, he kept quiet, allowing her to continue. "So what?"

"Well... isn't that..." He had to tread lightly here. Beverly clearly didn't share the views he'd been raised with, all those special little _'cultural rules'_ his mother had baked into his brain along with health and safety concerns. One specific one was that being a fruit— being _gay—_ was bad. Everyone knew that. It was accepted all over, right? _Gay people aren't normal. Gay people will eventually change and be straight._ That was what he saw and heard, anyway.

Unfortunately, Beverly wasn't cutting him any slack. He was going to have to toughen up and do it himself. "Isn't that _bad?"_ he reluctantly questioned. "To be—" he lowered his voice— " _gay?"_ He whispered the term like it was the biggest, darkest secret in all the universe, because for him, it sort of was. He needed to be careful not to make it an allusion to his _own_ situation. The last thing he'd want was for a Beverly to know he wasn't normal.

"Not at all." Beverly raised her head finally, and Eddie became aware of the fact that all the nails on his right hand were blue. How he should feel about it, he wasn't sure. Bev moved to his left hand, careful and precise with the strokes she made. "Why? Do you think it's bad?"

It was as uncomfortable as a teacher demanding answers that he didn't have. What was he supposed to say to this? Yes? No? The painful truth: he didn't know. And so that was what he told her— "I don't know," he mumbled with all the confidence of a man being marched to the gallows. It was the honest truth; he'd always been raised to tell the honest truth. He'd been raised to think gay people were bad, too, but he didn't know if he believed that. Not when he was pretty sure _he_ was a little fruity, too.

Maybe a lot, with the way the butterflies flocked to his stomach by the thousand when he brushed hands with Richie these days.

"Well, the good news is," Beverly replied with a smile, "you have all the time in the world to figure it out." She coated his middle finger in bright blue nail polish. "And you can ask me all your questions so you won't look stupid in front of anyone else," she teased.

"Hey!" Eddie huffed. A relieved smile jumped to his lips anyway. Beverly was here for him, she always had been. He was just now figuring out how grateful he was for her. "So," he murmured, more serious again, "you'll let me ask you anything?"

"Sure, Eddie, go for it."

"How do you... know?"

Beverly glanced up at him, her brow cinching together slightly. "What?"

"How do you know if you're, um..." He was still afraid to let the word roll from his lips. "Y'know. How do you know if you're..." The end of his sentence stubbornly refused to come out (ironically, just like Eddie), and he opened and closed his mouth while he searched for a better way to say what he wanted to.

If Beverly noticed how much Eddie was struggling— which he was certain she did; how couldn't she, with all the stuttering he was doing?— she didn't comment on it, letting him finish his own thought. He both liked and disliked her silence. It was intimidating, and it certainly wasn't helping him get his thoughts in order any faster, but he also knew there was an air of patience and understanding that came with her lack of speaking. She had always been a good listener.

"How do you figure it out," Eddie finally tried one last time, "if you're, uh, gay?" He put too much emphasis on the word again, and it was like fingernails on a chalkboard when he heard his own voice saying it aloud. "Like... when do you _know?"_ he followed up nervously, the words stringing together in his desperation to get his point across.

"Eddie," said Bev softly, "I wouldn't know. I'm not gay."

"Oh." For once, he was glad she was staring at his hands instead of his eyes. Eddie chewed on his bottom lip, taking a moment to digest what this meant. Beverly didn't think being _gay_ was a bad thing. But... she wasn't gay herself. "So you like boys," he said quietly, for clarification.

Beverly nodded, her curls bouncing when her head moved. She lifted her head, and their eyes locked. "Do _you?"_

Eddie almost choked on his own spit. " _No,"_ he answered immediately, shaking his head hard. "No. Of course I don't." Her eyes remained on his, though, as if she could see into the very depths of his soul. As if she knew how big of a fucking _lie_ that was. He cowered under her piercing gaze, cursing himself for letting Beverly paint his nails, because now he couldn't fidget with whatever was closest to him, or he'd smudge Bev's artwork.

Beverly tilted her head, a soft smile crossing her perfect features. "Eddie," she began, and immediately, he knew he was going to hate the next words that came out of her mouth. "You know it's okay, right? If you _are—"_

He couldn't stand the thought of hearing the word out loud again. "I don't like _boys,_ Beverly," he insisted, more forcefully this time. And the statement was mostly true, anyway. He didn't like boys, plural. He liked _one_ boy. He liked _Richie._ Beverly didn't look too surprised at Eddie's outburst, shrugging.

"Okay. Cool," she replied nonchalantly.

"Yeah. Cool," Eddie mumbled, glad she was finally letting it be.

Beverly eyed his fingernails. "They look good," she determined. "Don't move them, they still have to dry."

Eddie nodded. The question his mind was begging him to ask finally made its way out: "Why?" Why had she asked him if he liked boys? "Do you know someone who's, like... a boy who likes boys?" That was much easier to say than the actual word. A boy who liked boys sounded innocent. A _gay boy_ sounded bad and wrong and not normal.

"Maybe." Beverly shrugged. "But it's not our business, right?"

Eddie's eyes grew wide. "You _do?"_ he asked incredulously. "You know a fruit?" he let slip on accident. He assumed it was a little rude to call them that. _Them,_ he thought, as if he didn't fit right alongside them for liking another guy. It was easier to stay calm, though, when he didn't associate himself with those people.

"I can't tell you anything," she mused, a smile taking her lips again.

"Why not?" Eddie whined. He had to know more about this. If she knew someone who was gay, then maybe it was one of the Losers. And maybe it was even the guy he _wanted_ it to be.

"I swore an oath!" exclaimed Bev, eyes bright and wild and full of secrets Eddie was sure even Richie didn't know.

"We _all_ swore an oath, Bev!"

"Different oath." Beverly cracked a grin, reaching over to ruffle his hair. Eddie ducked, but he didn't move his hands, keeping them pressed against the paper towels firmly, just like she had told him to.

"Fine," he sighed, only giving in because it _wasn't_ really his business and he was starting to feel a little guilty. Maybe Bev knew a boy who hated liking boys as much as Eddie did. Maybe the boy hated _himself_ for liking boys, like Eddie did. Maybe the boy had begged Beverly not to tell anyone about how he felt and how he was.

Eddie could understand that. He'd begged the same of Bill.

"Your nails should be done," Bev chimed, changing the subject in that knowing way of hers. shooting him a grin. "Do you like them?"

Eddie, who had been unsure of his opinion until that very second, made a spur of the moment decision and nodded. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. "Thanks." He picked his hands up and curled his fingers over to stare at his shiny, colorful nails. Blue nails. Boys weren't supposed to have blue nails. But blue was a boy color, anyway, right? It was fine. He'd cheated the system.

"You're welcome, Eddie," Bev replied, standing up from her seat. "Hey. What time does your mom come home?"

"Usually, like, five." Eddie mirrored Beverly, standing and pushing his chair in. He looked up to the clock, which read 1:17. “Why?”

"We should go roller skating." Beverly grinned at him like it was the best idea she'd ever had in the whole entire world.

Meanwhile, Eddie panicked.

"With my nails painted?"

"Sure, with your nails painted!" Bev repeated. "Let's go, I wanna skate. I can cover the rental fee."

"I mean..." Eddie nearly bit his nails before remembering he'd ruin the pristine coat of polish Bev had just adorned them with if he did. "I'll look... gay."

"What's the harm in lookin' a little gay? There's nothing wrong with that." They both knew it was a lie— in these times, anyway— and no amount of sincerity in Bev's smile could change that. She seemed to accept this fact and changed her mind, offering a different reason. "The skating rink is pretty dark," she remarked. "No one's gonna see your hands. Let's skate!"

Eddie's stomach rolled with butterflies. He glanced down at his blue nails. Stubbornly, he thought, _this shade of blue looks damn good on me._ It was thrilling to break the rules sometimes, and even if Eddie was a coward when it came to _real_ fights, he could fulfill his craving for rebellion with little actions like these. And as long as he wore shorts with pockets... well, he was good at skating. He could keep his hands in his pockets. Consoled by the fact that nobody would actually be able to _see_ his blue nails, Eddie smiled nervously, meeting Beverly's eyes again.

"Okay. Let's skate."


	15. Fourteen - Richie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie is tasked with finding a way to spend his lonely summer afternoon. Luckily, it doesn’t stay lonely for very long.

Richie blew a piece of hair out of his face, kicking at the dirt on the ground. There was nothing to do today. He already knew that Eddie was trying to behave and listen to his mother again. It was incredibly stupid— in Richie's honest opinion, anyway— but he couldn't exactly comment on it. If Eddie was obeying his mother, that meant he stayed at home and followed the rules of his grounding, which meant that today, he couldn't see the boy with the honey-colored eyes, a tragedy in and of itself.

He glanced down at the ice cream cone in his hand, a frown turning his whole expression sour. Regret was already snaking through his limbs, berating him for wasting his money on an ice cream while he was alone when he could've waited to share a treat with Eddie instead. Ice cream was so boring when there was nobody else to have it with, he'd found out the hard way. Richie sighed, biting down on the cone and crunching it up anyway. He'd eaten it quickly to evade the summer heat that slowly crept in and melted his ice cream faster.

Stanley was out on a lake trip with his parents, he was pretty sure. _Thanks a lot for stealing my Staniel, you stupid lake._ Of course, it was asinine to blame a lake for his boredom issues, but who else was he to blame? Mrs. Uris was simply too sweet to be upset with and Mr. Uris was intimidating enough that Richie didn't dare let any anger fester against the older man.

Richie had tried Bev's house _first,_ of course, but the fact of the matter was simply that nobody had picked up the phone. Richie had wondered if he should go visit her to make sure everything was okay, but he knew if she _was_ fine, he would just look stupid— and her aunt would probably have a few questions— so that had since been ruled out.

Richie didn't really want to hang out with anyone else today. Sure, he liked spending time with Bill and Mike and Ben, but they didn't _get_ him like the other three did. They didn't understand his inner layers. They saw him as a flat, two-dimensional court jester with no purpose other than to provide comedic relief— and, at times, exceed incredibly high levels of obnoxiousness. Beverly, Stan, and Eddie (Richie _hoped_ he could group Eddie in with them, anyway) seemed to see right through him sometimes. A _lot_ of times. They knew when he was upset even though he often didn't show it— even, in fact, when he actively tried to _hide_ it. They knew when he was angry even if he didn't outright say it. They knew him better than he knew himself, quite honestly.

He loved them _all,_ those damn Losers.

But even loving the Losers wouldn't change the fact that he had nothing to do. If he went out in the street and loudly professed his love for the nerdiest, dorkiest, lowest-on-the-food-chain kids of Derry, it wouldn't bring him any closer to finding a good way to spend another hot summer day— nor would it look very good for his image, either, even if he didn't have much of one. 

Which was why he had other plans. Finally, a good idea sprang to mind, and he scarfed down the rest of his soft serve, shoving his non-sticky hand deep into his pocket. His fingers brushed against Eddie's drawing, and he smiled, working his hand around it to try and find a different type of paper instead. Finally, he emerged victorious, pulling a few old bills from his pocket. How much was admission to the skating rink? And he had to consider the rental fee for skates, too, since he didn't have any of his own. Maybe he'd ask for some for Christmas. He glanced down to count his bills and ended with five. He had five measly dollars to spend at the roller rink.

Five would have to do.

He spent the whole walk trying to remember how much it cost to get into the roller rink, worrying himself sick about being turned away at the front door for being perhaps a single dollar short. When he arrived, though, pushing said front door open and slinking into the dimly lit building, he was overjoyed to read the sign that broadcasted the prices; it was $4.50 to skate and he was armed with a handful of rumpled Washingtons that put him fifty cents richer than he needed to be. Maybe he could use his two extra quarters on gumballs from the machine.

He waltzed up to the counter, his dark curls bouncing slightly as he walked. Some pop song he'd heard a thousand times on the radio was blasting throughout the establishment, and it was cold inside, a welcome deviation from the humid heat that had been draped over Derry for the past week. The stifling temperature was hell for Richie and his thick head of hair, but he'd rather die than cut any of it off. He'd been growing his messy mop ever since his parents had given up trying to get him to keep it short, and now it crept farther and farther down his neck each day. His one condition was keeping it shorter than a mullet. He wasn't trying to match mullet-wearing asshole Henry Bowers.

Richie dug his hand into his pocket, producing the bills and brandishing them to the older teen at the counter. "Thanks," the girl said, flashing him a grin with a dimple that resembled Eddie's. Richie felt his heart stir slightly. To keep his mind off of honey eyes, sun-kissed skin, and fluffy brown hair, he glanced off to the side at the rink, where hidden projectors cast glowing designs on the dark floor. He was antsy to get on the floor, to skate like there was no tomorrow.

"Hello?"

Startled, Richie jerked his head back, his eyes leaving the speckled ceiling tiles. "Sorry, what?"

"I need your shoe size," the girl chirped brightly, setting Richie's two quarters in change back on the counter. Her eyes were a sharp green, not like Eddie's at all. Richie took the coins and dropped them back into his pocket, currently thinking that this girl was weirdly enthusiastic for a gal working a shitty desk job at a roller skating rink. _Doesn't it suck that you just have to watch everyone else have fun? You don't get paid enough to be that happy, do you?_

"Yeah, sorry. I wear size eleven," he finally replied. "In-line skates, please, not quads," he added onto the end before she even had the chance to ask. He hopped on one foot and then the other, yanking off his beat-up Converse. He took the skates when they were finally handed to him, switching the girl for them and handing his dirty shoes over instead. "Thanks."

"No prob. Your hair is _choice,_ by the way," she replied happily, and Richie was convinced she thought he was older than he actually was. _Damn tall genes. Thanks a lot, Dad._

"Um, yeah. Uh. Thanks," he stumbled, going a little red in the face not out of discomposure but out of embarrassment at her oddly timed compliment. Usually he'd fire back some dirty remark, but it felt weird flirting with some seventeen, maybe _eighteen_ year old girl while he had Eddie on the brain. Her dirty blonde hair was curled nicely, and her long lashes were pretty, and he supposed her lips were shapely, too, but a pretty face meant nothing to him when instead he could be thinking about Eddie's short shorts and long socks and quick temper.

"'Course." The cashier winked, and Richie did his best not to make a grossed-out face. He figured some of it may have slipped into his expression anyway, though, because her lips turned down slightly at the corners. _Oops._ It wasn't like he _didn't_ think girls were pretty! They were. He wasn't fucking _blind,_ he knew girls were attractive. Cashier Girl, Beverly Marsh— hell, even that wretched Greta Bowie was kind of pretty, if only on the outside. There were tons of pretty girls in the world. Richie didn't feel any certain way about them, though.

Richie liked pretty _boys._

He cleared his throat, moving forward to plop down onto a bench and pull the skates onto his sock-clad feet. He wriggled his toes around to make sure they weren't too tight, frowning when he realized his skin was going to chafe against the tops of the skates because he'd forgotten to wear long socks. _Damn._ He'd rather suffer through it than take the time to stop back at home, though, so he decided it didn't really matter too much.

He laced up his skates meticulously, perhaps one of the only things he'd done patiently all day. He'd learned the hard way that if he didn't take the time to make sure they were tied right, he ran the risk of twisting an ankle. At least if he tied his laces correctly, he would fall without the even more painful ankle injury that sometimes came with. He'd always liked roller skating better than ice skating for that reason; the hard floor didn't feel as bad to fall on as the ice did.

Richie tightened the final knot and stood, wobbling a bit when he first started to move. It had been awhile since he last skated. He pushed forward, gliding toward the opening where he'd finally make it out onto the rink and be able to fly across the cool, flat surface.

He didn't often go skating with the rest of the Losers, but when he did, he wasn't as careful. When he skated with other people, his messy Trashmouth persona popped out. He tied his skates loosely, skated flippantly, and laughed a lung up whenever he fell, sometimes even dragging Stan or Bill or maybe even Ben down with him for fun.

Alone, though... Alone was a different story. Skating was one of the few things Richie actually enjoyed doing by himself. Here on his own, Richie wasn't Trashmouth Tozier. He faded into the background, and he flew. He felt the wind in his hair and on his face, and he made his wrists sorer and sorer every time he fell and caught himself the wrong way, because he cared, but couldn't bring himself to care _quite_ enough.

Richie pushed his glasses up by the bridge and propelled himself forward. He pulled the collar of his shirt down slightly, glancing down at the design. It was one of his favorite shirts, his Freese's shirt, which Eddie had washed and returned to him ages ago. As he skated forward, he gingerly wrapped a hand in the material, bringing it up to his nose. He inhaled deeply, smelled whatever laundry detergent Eddie's mom used to clean their clothes. Or maybe Sonia didn't do it— maybe Eddie did it. Richie could picture that. He smiled, letting the fabric slip from his fingers and turning with the wall of the roller rink.

How was he already finished with a whole lap? It felt like he had blinked and then suddenly been teleported back to the spot he'd started from. Christ, he was kind of a fast skater, wasn't he? He always had worked on it. Whenever he could, he skated faster and faster. Maybe if he just kept improving his speed, it would impress Eddie. _Wonder if I could snag a hot date 'cause of my expert roller skating skills._ His cheeks burned red hot at the thought. He was so glad the place was dim inside. _A hot date with Eddie Kaspbrak. God, that sounds so nice._

He shook his head and sped up as if he was trying to run from his own thoughts. This was his peaceful time. He had Eddie on the brain 24/7. His poor mind needed a break. He sucked in a breath to clear his headspace, craving a cigarette. He was clean out, and he'd just blown his last bit of cash on roller skating. Bev usually helped him out when it came to smokes, though; she was a good shoplifter, far better than Richie would ever be at shit like that.

On his eleventh or twelfth lap— he couldn't remember which— he ran into a tedious problem. He realized he was angled in a way that would cause him to crash right into two kids clinging to the wall a yard or two ahead of him. He was boxed out at the left by a kid going almost as fast as him. His only choice was going to be swerving at the last second. He lowered his torso as he approached the tricky situation, spreading his feet apart slightly for better balance. "I can't do this shit," he heard, "No, I can't let go of you, are you _crazy?!_ I overestimated myself, dude. I'm really fucking bad, I'm gonna fall, I..." Where had he heard that voice before?

No, he needed to focus. He lowered his shoulders even more, and, at the last second, completed his plan successfully, flying past the two kids at lightning speed and just barely bumping shoulders with the guy who had been complaining about being shit at skating. "Holy shit!" he heard, and his head whipped around to look over his shoulder as the familiarity of the voice clicked.

That was a mistake, he soon found out. Richie crashed, his skates skidding sideways across the floor. He panicked as his feet came out from under him. Gravity got the best of him, and he went down hard, hard enough to evoke quiet exclamations and soft gasps from people around him. 

"Jesus Christ," he groaned, propping himself up on his elbows with a bit of effort. His wrist smarted from, once again, catching himself wrongly, but he hadn't quite managed to sprain it, he was fairly sure. Most of the pain felt like it had gone into his hip. _Jesus, I feel like I'm eighty._ He pulled his shirt up a bit to peer at the damage, catching sight of a bruise already starting to swell up on his skin.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" a voice came from above him, and he glanced up, finding the blonde girl from earlier staring down at him. He quickly pulled his shirt down, blushing.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," Richie murmured. _Go away, please. Leave. I'm looking for someone._

"Are you sure? That looked like a nasty bruise," the girl replied sympathetically, crouching down to his level. "I can help you walk to the front desk and get you an ice pack?" Her hand settled on his shoulder, effectively deeming Richie _insanely_ uncomfortable. This girl was clearly hitting on him, but he didn't have the guts to tell her that A.) he was _fourteen,_ and B.) he didn't quite swing that way, if his calculations were correct.

"Uh," he said, brilliantly. _God, I have such a way with words._ "I guess that's—"

"Excuse me!" Richie's favorite wild little freckled boy came rolling to a stop right beside the girl, shooting daggers at her with his eyes. "Ex _cuse_ me," he said again, more insistently, and Richie felt his pulse speed up a little. Eddie's hands were set determinedly on his hips; he wasn't budging. Cashier Girl moved away with a furrowing of her brow and the mumbling of something under her breath. Richie couldn't care less; he was just glad to be saved from the sticky situation.

"Eds?"

"The one and only," scoffed the tiny brunet standing, wobbly on his skates, above him. Richie's heart warmed at the fact that Eddie didn't even bother to correct him on the nickname. "What the fuck, Rich! You scared the shit outta me, man!"

"Don't worry about punishing me for it," groaned the raven-haired boy. "I think the floor already did that for you."

Despite the concern in Eddie's gaze, he laughed. Richie watched his shoulders relax slightly, glad to be of help to the clearly high strung boy. "Yeah, sure did. Jesus, you okay? You bruised anywhere?"

"Nah," Richie lied, grinning up at him. "It wasn't any worse than when I fell for your mom." Eddie groaned, and Richie's grin fell into more of a smirk. He'd feel like Satan himself if he were to make the brunet worry any more about him. He could practically see the smaller boy gaining gray hairs as they spoke.

"You fucking liar. Let me see your—"

"Are you gonna help me up or what?" laughed Richie, lifting a hand to distract Eddie from inspecting his way-too-existent bruise.

"Uhh," said Eddie, awkwardly, and Richie's heart plummeted, even if it was just supposed to be a diversion. "I can't, uh. I don't really... Um. I don't think..." He eyed Richie's hand nervously, his hands still stuffed into his jacket pockets (smart boy, bringing a jacket; Richie was fucking freezing already and he hadn't even been here that long).

"Jeez, fine, ya dick," Richie snorted, though his heart fell at a lost chance to wrap his hand around Eddie's. "I'll do it myself." Was it his fault? Had he said something? Maybe Eddie had been avoiding him all day and was just trying to get out of staying any longer than he had to. His mind jumped to the worst of conclusions, and he chewed at his bottom lip, fretting as he swung his legs around to get on his knees.

"No, it's not— I just, uh. I can't really... balance," Eddie admitted sheepishly.

"Oh, right! You're shit at skating," Richie teased, feeling his body warm up from where it had been so frozen just seconds ago. So it _wasn't_ his fault. Eddie _didn't_ think he was disgusting. Maybe Eddie wasn't even trying to ignore him, either. Maybe Eddie was really being truthful, and he wasn't helping Richie up because if he tried, he'd knock them both down.

 _Because— to be brutally honest— he_ does _suck at skating._

"Richie Tozier, I'm going to kill you one day, and I'll make sure it won't be a quick death," Beverly announced, skating to a stop in front of him. She stuck her hand out, saving him from having to use his sore wrist to push himself to his feet again.

 _Beverly!_ She was perfectly fine! And apparently watching over Eddie, much to his relief. Bev was one of the only people he could trust (and not be jealous of) to parade Eddie around town. "Thanks, Bevvie. I'll quote you on that in my will so that when I die everyone thinks it was you."

"Beep beep." She grinned, ruffling his hair. "What was that about, huh?"

"I looked at Eddie," began Richie, truthfully. Beverly's eyes widened. "Then I saw how much he looked like his beautiful mother," he continued, and she rolled her eyes. Eddie's hand came up to hit him gently in the shoulder. "And then I remembered that I was late for our date and I was gonna miss my plans to rail her. So I fell," he finished cheekily, offering a smug grin to Eddie.

"Shut up, asshole," the doe-eyed boy snorted.

"So, Dr. K, speaking of your darling parental unit," Richie replied, inclining his head toward Eddie. "What happened to obeying your mom today, huh?"

"Well, uh." Eddie's cheeks colored, and even though the lighting in the rink was shit, he could see the blush. "I, um, gave up?"

"Hell yeah," Richie laughed, lips tugging up into a grin again. "Ditched your grounding to hang out with Molly Ringwald, I see."

"Well, I woulda hung out with you, but..." Eddie trailed off, glancing to Beverly. Richie had no idea what the fuck was going on behind the scenes. Was he a little hurt that he wasn't in on it? Possibly. But Beverly and Eddie weren't an unlikely duo. Besides, all of Eddie's secrets weren't automatically Richie’s to know. He could respect that.

"Oh, I didn't even notice that you were gone," Richie teased. "I was too busy eating ice cream and making plans with your mom."

"For the love of all things holy, Richie—"

"Like Stan's funky little Jewish hat?"

"—stop talking about my mom," Eddie finished. "You got ice cream without me?”

"Yeah, you heard me." Richie smirked, trying not to let on that he really wished Eddie could've been there, because eating ice cream alone was boring. "It was great. Vanilla, as always, because it's the best flavor—"

"You're dead wrong."

"I'm not! And I finished the thing in, like, thirty seconds."

"Hey, dweebs," Bev said, tugging gently on each of their shirt sleeves. "Come on. We can't just stay standing still in the middle of the rink."

"Or we _could,"_ Richie responded, though happy to be moving again. "I don't give a fuck about their agendas." The bruise had faded to a dull ache, something easy enough for him to push out of his mind as he kicked off and started rolling to the wall. He immediately left Eddie in the dust, not really realizing it until a soft grunt of concentration came from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, and there was Eddie, still a few feet behind, trying way too hard at something he wasn't even close to succeeding at. _Poor thing._

Richie let Beverly go ahead, skating back slightly to offer a hand to Eddie. "Here, Spagheds, I think—" Eddie interrupted him with actions instead of words. The small boy pitched forward slightly, losing balance, so he grabbed onto Richie's arm with both hands. Richie's face grew warmer than he thought was natural; his free hand came up to steady Eddie by the shoulder. "Careful there."

"I am," Eddie grumbled. "I am being careful."

"Did they change the meaning of careful?" Richie teased, feeling Eddie's eyes burning holes in his skin. He never ceased to be amazed at just how harsh Eddie could make his gaze. If looks could kill, he'd already have committed mass genocide by now. "I'm kidding. Just relax. Here." Richie moved his hand to Eddie's bicep, and then, carefully, his hand. Eddie was tense, though, and Richie was debating dropping it already. _Mistake. That was a fucking mistake. Come on, Tozier, you know better than that._

He was proven wrong, though; Eddie's cold hand tightened in his, quelling the unease that had started to bubble up in the back of Richie's mind. "Thanks," he murmured, allowing Richie to pull him along. "Where've you been?" he inquired, staring up at Richie with his sugary sweet innocent eyes.

And Richie's heart melted. Eddie cared where he'd been? _Christ's sake, Rich, you're not eleven._ It didn't matter, though, because he couldn't help feeling all sparkly inside. "Yowza, Eds, way to make a man feel special," he joked, nudging at Eddie's shoulder.

"Whatever," Eddie mumbled, glancing away. "I'm just asking to make sure you didn't make any messes we have to clean up while you were alone."

Richie would've felt a little betrayed, but his high from earlier was too strong for him to be put down now. It even got bonus points because he was still holding fast to Eddie's hand. "Oh, sureee," he teased. "I told you. I just got ice cream. I've been bored all _day,"_ he groaned. "You told me you were gonna follow the rules today, so I didn't call!"

With a guilty puppy look, Eddie replied, "Yeah, I'm sorry. I didn't really mean to do stuff today, but I needed Bev's help with something, and then she wanted to hang out, and I really didn't wanna stay at home, so..." He shrugged. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize." Richie lifted his free hand, rubbing his knuckles across Eddie's head, much to the shorter boy's dismay. "Now you're here and I can watch you fall down as many times as I want."

"Looks like you're doing more of the falling than I am," Eddie retorted, grabbing Richie's hand to pull it away from his head.

"Yeah, but only 'cause you won't come off the wall!" Richie teased. He glanced down at Eddie's hand, and quickly turned his own hand over to take it as they continued at a slow but steady pace. "What's on your nails?"

Eddie's eyes widened. He pulled at his hand, but Richie wouldn't let go. "It— It's nothing," he quickly said. "Don't worry about it. Um, it's not— it's just—"

"Ooh, Eds, you tease," Richie replied, lifting Eddie's other hand, the one he'd been holding, too. He scanned them both, a small smile crossing his lips. The striking blue nail polish was unmistakable, even with the terrible lighting. "Did Bev do these for you?"

"Um, yeah," Eddie said quietly, sounding exactly like he did when his mother had caught him doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. Richie hated that. He didn't want Eddie to feel like he had to be ashamed around him, not now and not ever.

So, ignoring anything he'd ever learned about the rules of society, he said, "It's cute." He flashed Eddie a grin, lifting his hand and kissing his knuckles like Beverly did for him often. "Tell her I said thanks." He winked, and Eddie rolled his eyes. Much to Richie's delight, though, Eddie's cheeks were bright pink.

"Whatever, man, don't be weird." He pulled his hands away, and just as Richie thought he'd lost it all, Eddie continued, "I pull it off way better than you ever could." The brunet tried to speed up slightly— probably so he didn't have to cling to Richie the whole time.

"Be careful, you little daredevil. Wouldn't want you falling like I did," Richie said, following close behind him so he could be right there if anything were to happen.

"Maybe I will, just to spite you." Eddie grinned at him from over his shoulder, and Richie sped up, grabbing his hand again.

"Don't look over your shoulder, stupid. That's what made _me_ fall." Without thinking too much (because he knew he'd lose confidence and abandon ship if he did), he shifted his hand and laced their fingers.

"Well, then I must be better than you, 'cause I don't know if you've noticed, but _I'm_ still standing." Eddie didn't let go of Richie's hand, instead turning to stick his tongue out. Richie took the chance to appreciate his golden boy: all the directions Eddie's hair stuck out because of the wind from skating, all the light freckles that made his cheeks their home, all the wrinkles in his clothes— and was that one of Richie's shirts?

The raven-haired boy only laughed, his eyes moving up quickly to find Bev, who had far surpassed them. She grinned (he could tell; he'd be able to recognize her smile from a thousand miles away) and made a heart with her hands, pointing to him. Richie flushed, flipping her off. He was distracted from continuing the non-verbal conversation when Eddie lost balance.

 _Fuck._ Richie's free hand shot out, crossing over his body to steady the small brunet by the small of his back. "You good?" The last thing he wanted was for Eddie to take as hard a fall as he had. Though not as breakable as his mother made him out to be, Eddie _was_ a little fragile.

"Chee, I'm fine." _Chee._ Richie thought he might die of happiness in about three seconds flat. Eddie did seem a little disheveled, but he raised an eyebrow. "Why are you so worried about me, huh? Are you afraid I'll become a better skate master than you if I'm left unchecked?"

"You could _never."_ Richie pretended to flip his hair, even though it wasn't really long enough to fling over his shoulder. "You can only dream to one day be as magnificent as me."

"Sure," Eddie chuckled, reaching up to hold onto Richie's shirt sleeve, and it made Richie so warm inside. _God, I like you so much._ He hoped this moment wouldn't ever end.

However, he became his own worst enemy. "Are we gonna catch up with Bev or what?" Richie asked quickly. If he was left alone with Eddie for any longer, he was afraid he'd do something stupid.

"Eh, maybe. She stinks," Eddie quipped, making no move forward, which only made Richie fall for him even more.

He laughed, shaking his head and propelling them forward a little more. "God, you've been hanging out with me too much."

"I could never hang out with you too much," Eddie replied, and Richie felt a shiver run down his spine. _Oh my god. I'm gonna melt. Jesus Christ, Eds._ He tightened his hand in Eddie's and pulled him forward, a slightly embarrassed half-smirk forcing its way onto his lips.

"You keep telling yourself that, and we'll see who's right when you start doing voices in the middle of history class." Richie nudged his shoulder, and the corners of Eddie's lips curled up.

"Maybe I _want_ to do voices in the middle of history. It's boring, anyway."

"Oh, Eddie, my darling Eddie, I always knew you loved me back," Richie announced dramatically, and Eddie giggled, music to Richie's ears. Even though he wanted to hold on forever, clinging to Eddie and skating by his side until the rink closed and security kicked them out, he let Eddie's cold hand slip away, giving the shorter boy a gentle push. "You do it."

Eddie gasped, his arms coming out to his sides for balance. "You _dick!"_ he exclaimed while Richie laughed in the background. "Bev! Come help!"

"You'll never learn if you don't do it yourself. You were the one who said you have to do stuff hands-on to learn it all the way." Richie flashed a triumphant smile.

"Fine, fine," Eddie grumbled, stumbling. Even though Richie had pushed him off, sent him off by himself so ruthlessly like a mama bird pushing her baby off the branch, he stayed close by, his hands shooting up every time Eddie stumbled even a little bit. So, when Eddie tripped, falling backwards, Richie was there to catch him before he could hit the floor.

Even when the force knocked _both_ of them down, and Richie landed on the same spot he'd bruised earlier, he still loved Eddie Kaspbrak.


	16. Eddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a tough day involving his mother, a warm washcloth, and a locked door, Eddie needs to get out of the house for some fresh air. His feet bring him to the only place he can go this late at night.

Eddie stifled a yawn, pumping his legs back and forth to propel himself higher on the swing. He didn't often actually kick his legs; usually, he sat and swung back and forth very gently, with only the weight of his own torso moving him little bits at a time. _Don't swing too high, Eddie Bear. You could fall and get hurt. You wouldn't want to get_ hurt, _would you? That's right, you wouldn't want anything_ bad _to happen to you._

Now, though, he paid no mind to the voices in his head and kicked high. Higher and higher until he was swinging so high he was coming level with the crossbeam that held the chains up every time he hit his highest point. He supposed he could consider this practice for beating Richie. The Losers had competitions on the swing set sometimes, when they didn't feel too embarrassed to be swinging as high as little kids again. Richie was the only one Eddie couldn't beat easily. They were four and four. Richie would try to tell anyone who would listen that they were actually five and three, and that he was winning in the long run, but that was a lie. They were neck and neck like they always seemed to be.

Both nothing and everything had happened today. He hadn't set foot outside his house in over twenty-four hours, and he'd been going stir crazy. The second he heard Sonia's breathing even out into a steady pace, he'd snuck out his own second story window, since she'd had him locked in his room from the outside— the first time she'd ever _locked_ him in. It was a terrifying thought, knowing one's own mother would trap one inside just to fulfill that wild, inexplicable urge to _protect._

He didn't know how he was going to get back up once he went back home, but he would burn that bridge when he came to it. Eddie's mind was too dark a place to bother with trivial matters right now, the vast emptiness in his brain rivaling the night sky above him, which probably lost the contest, only because it was brighter and more full with its billions of stars.

Eddie didn't have billions of stars. He only had _one_ star.

He let the swing slow down, shoulders jerking forward every time he came high enough to jump. But he _couldn't_ jump. He couldn't make himself, and the voices in his head strongly advising against it only made things worse. He'd always been so scared of everything, after all. The swing slowed even further, and cowardly Eddie didn't get off until it had almost completely stopped moving.

He dusted his shorts off as if he'd been kneeling in the mud. In reality, he'd been swinging for the entirety of the time he'd spent out and about. It was technically "closed." The sign near the front said nobody was permitted to be on the equipment after sunset. Eddie figured he might as well disregard a few new rules, though, along with the ones he was used to breaking by now. Besides, it wasn't like he could see a park ranger anywhere near to enforce the regulations. Eddie frowned down at the wood chips that filled the desolate playground, digging a dip into the mulch with the toe of one of his sneakers. The place felt very different without screaming toddlers and the heat of the sun, and Eddie wasn't sure if he liked it.

He kicked at the mulch again, only one thought rattling around in his head.

He wanted to see _his_ star.

He checked the watch on his right wrist, squinting. _It's too fucking late for this—_ as if the tar-black sky hadn't already pointed that out for him. Eddie pulled at the zipper of his fanny pack, noting the way it got stuck and how it had been doing that more and more lately. _Guess I need a new one._ He retrieved a compact flashlight, clicking the button at the end to make it light up. It wasn't very strong, but it was better than nothing.

The night was cold— for summer, anyway— and Eddie was terrified. To break the rules so drastically was exhilarating, yes, but at the same time, it was nerve-wracking. He knew he'd catch Bowers or one of his cronies (or maybe even the leper) around a corner soon if he didn't hurry up and pick a destination.

 _Why go anywhere? Everyone is asleep anyway._ But he knew that wasn't true. Richie wasn't asleep. There was no way; at this time, he never was. Eddie had known Richie long enough to know that. His legs brought him forward, and he moved without thinking much, continuing his walk until he'd reach the sidewalk.

Only then, finally out of the mulch and onto solid ground, did Eddie pause. The mellow light of a nearby street lamp warmed his cold limbs, and he drew nearer to it as he thought about what to do. He lifted a hand, turning it over and glancing down. His eyes raked over his pink nail beds, their cuticles rubbed raw, and he bit his lip to keep the tears at bay, the scene from earlier springing to mind.

 _"Eddie Bear, what_ is _that?" his mother asked, leaning forward across the table. "What did you get on your hands? Is that paint?"_

Fuck. _Eddie's fork clattered down onto his plate, and he yanked his hands back and out of view like he'd touched something too hot. She'd seen the nail polish. He had thought he could get away with it at breakfast by pulling his jacket sleeves down too far and eating quickly, but he'd been foolish to even risk it._

_He tucked his hands, fingernails still blue from when Beverly had painted them the day before, between his thighs, his scared, doe-like eyes centering in on his mother. "I-It's nothing, Mommy. Is— Is your vision okay? Maybe we should—"_

_"Sweetie," Sonia interrupted, her voice like a spoonful of poisoned honey. "Are you_ lying _to me right now?"_

 _The word alone stung, piercing his heart apathetically. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he blinked them back. He was too old for crying over stuff like this. The boy shook his head wildly, hair flying into his face. "No, Mommy, no. No, I'm not lying. I'm not_ lying!" _he shrieked, shoving his seat back and jumping up out of it when Sonia stood from hers. The young boy scrambled away, shoving his hands behind his back, but in his panic, he'd chosen the wrong way to go; his back hit the counter, and Sonia lumbered forward and reached him, pulling at one of his arms._

_"Let me see, honey. Let Mommy see."_

_"No," Eddie choked out, his voice shaking even with that single word. "No." He leaned back, pressing himself against the counter in a final attempt to escape from the woman he had the displeasure of calling his mother. Sonia, though unfit, was a grown woman, and Eddie knew he was small-statured for a boy his age; naturally, she overpowered him, wrenching one of his arms out from behind him and yanking his hand up to inspect his fingers._

_"Edward," she whispered._

_When Eddie cried, it started out soft, the same way every time. It began with the hitching of his breath, and a whimper would follow shortly after. Then the tears would start to roll— quietly at first, but they rose in a crescendo of sour notes until they were pouring down like the rains of a hurricane. Soon, he was sobbing, hot tears running down his freckled cheeks in the same paths they always took, which almost felt branded into his skin by now. "I didn't do it," he begged, his arm going limp in her grasp until it was simply dead weight. "It wasn't me. It wasn't."_

_"Who_ did, _then? Who did this to you, baby?" Sonia demanded, her eyes blazing hotter than the sun. Eddie shrunk back as she went on. "You shouldn't be wearing this, Eddie Bear. You look like a_ gay boy." _Eddie sobbed pitifully, shaking his head, but Sonia wasn't finished. "You shouldn't look_ gay, _honey. That's not healthy! You look like a f—"_

_"Stop!" Eddie cried, hiccuping amidst his flood of tears. He was sure he'd crumble into dust if he heard the word that always came from Henry Bowers spoken by his own mother instead. He'd become nothing more than ashes in the wind, broken inside and out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he mumbled, shaking his head. "I'm sorry."_

_"Who, sweetie?"_

_"Wh-What?" Eddie sniffed roughly, coughing a little. It was unhealthy to sniff when you cried. He knew that. He was supposed to know that, at least. He also knew, though, that his mother was too hung up on more important matters to berate him for it now. He waited somberly for her next words, dreading them immensely. Now he really_ did _feel like a man being marched to the gallows._

_"Who did this to you? Where did you get this nail polish?" Eddie turned his head away, but Sonia used her free hand to take his chin, forcing him to look at her. "Who was it, sweetie?"_

_Eddie could barely breathe now. He couldn't rat Beverly out. It was selfish and wrong, and besides, he'd been the one to let her do it, anyway. "I—" He struggled for a lie that made sense. Normally, he was so good at this. It must've been all the crying that was melting his brain. He could already feel a headache coming on. "I, um. It was..." Now he was going to be caught switching his story, creating even more of a problem for himself. He sucked in a quivering breath, his eyelashes sticking together in clumps because of the torrent of tears. "I— I just found it. In the closet."_

_"And_ why _did you take it out?"_

_Sonia's tone was so forceful that Eddie wanted to sink down into the floor and become one with the kitchen tiles. Trying to answer verbally would get him nowhere, he knew, so he shrugged, sniffling again._

_"Stop sniffing like that, Eddie Bear, you'll clog your sinuses." Her grip on his hand tightened, and she backed up, pulling him away from the counter. "Come on, Eddie. I'll help you wash it off. You'd like that, wouldn't you." It wasn't a question; she was telling him he'd like it and he knew he had no choice but to agree. He nodded, not that it mattered, and tried to keep up as she walked perhaps the fastest he'd ever seen her aside from one or two times in the past. Even though his feet were dragging, he forced himself to keep going, knowing his punishment would be worse if he didn't obey._

_He whimpered, and it did nothing to quell Sonia's fury; the more noise he made, the tighter her grip on his wrist got. She dragged him all the way into the bathroom, snatching up a washcloth and running cold water over it. "I'll fix it for you, honey," Sonia drawled. "And you won't do it again, right?"_

_"R-Right," Eddie mumbled. There was nothing else he could say._

_His pancakes remained uneaten that morning, and his cuticles suffered the brunt of Sonia Kaspbrak's homophobia._

Eddie blew out a breath, shuddering. So much for not getting caught. He'd managed to evade her gaze for the duration of the night after roller skating, yes, but the morning had been hell. He shook his head, banishing the memory to be stored in the vault in the back of his mind that he never wanted to open again. It always seemed like he didn't have much of a choice, though.

Eddie, having made up his mind, began his trek, just barely limping because of the way his ankle had rolled a little too far when he'd pulled his escapade stunt earlier. The conclusion he'd come to? He'd rather be anywhere than home. The next best place was Richie's house— no, Richie himself. It didn't matter where he was, Eddie reasoned; the raven-haired boy could always put a smile on Eddie's face even if he couldn't bring one to his own.

He thought back to his conversation with Beverly as he walked, though a little taken aback at how easy it was for him to slip out of the moment. Her words echoed in his mind, replaying over and over. She'd asked him if he liked boys, and he wasn't sure if his answer had been a lie. He'd said no, of course; he didn't like boys. He was fairly sure he didn't like boys, at least. Not romantically. He only liked Richie. And yeah, Richie was one hell of a boy, but how did it count if he only liked one boy, anyway? The whole thing was way too confusing for his taste.

He was tired of hating himself for this. Sonia hated him for it, society hated him for it, and if there was a God, he probably hated Eddie for it, too. It seemed the only people that didn't were Bill and Beverly, and Bev didn't even know for sure that Eddie liked a boy. _So that's promising._ He blew a few strands of hair out of his face, frowning deeply. How were his thoughts full of _R_ _ichie, Richie, Richie_ but also _don't be gay, you can't be gay, being gay is bad_ at the same time? It hurt his brain.

He knew he'd have to come to a decision about this sometime, decide whether or not he wanted to admit he liked boys, but that time couldn't be now. The easiest thing to do was keep pushing it further and further away. If he kept putting it off, he didn't have to man up and face his feelings. There would be no tears and no issues and everything would be okay, and he would just keep living like normal, just with that tiny boy-loving piece of himself hidden away forever.

But if he ignored those feelings, that meant ignoring his feelings for Richie. God, he couldn't do that. There was no way he could do that. He sighed, forcing himself to keep walking and glancing back and forth before he crossed the street.

Usually he was so vigilant when he walked from place to place; anxiety from the incident last summer always got to his head when he was traveling alone. Paranoia got the best of him, so he had to be careful not to let something bad happen. He had to be prepared or misfortune would chase him down and wrap its freezing hands around his ankles. If he didn't pay attention to where he was going, he'd slip and fall down a rabbit hole of consequences.

Tonight wasn't like that, though; tonight, as his short legs (oh, how he wished they would grow) carried him down the sidewalk, he wasn't bound by the chains of responsibility. He had been freed from the shackles of obedience, locking them away in his room and leaving them in the dust the second he'd leapt out of his bedroom window. Maybe the ghost of a disappointed mother's orders followed him closely, breathing down his neck, but then again, ghosts weren't solid, anyway, which meant there was nothing to hold him back. He was on his own now, and his mind was free to roam as it pleased.

That was why he didn't notice how close he actually was to Richie's house until he was standing on the boy's front porch. He lifted a hand to knock, and then paused and lowered it, glancing to the driveway where he could see the end of Wentworth Tozier's Chevy Lumina peeking out of the open garage. Eddie cupped his hand around one side of his face, peeking into the window through the small crack that the curtain didn't cover. The hallway light was on. He saw a door open to the left and ducked. _Shit._ Someone in the house was awake, and Eddie was either going to be very lucky or very, very unlucky.

He darted around the side of the house, hurriedly clicking his flashlight off and running to the back. He'd never been more grateful that Richie's house only had one floor. The raven-haired boy's bedroom had two windows; one was above a desk, and the other had nothing under it. Eddie hadn't exactly snuck into Richie's house alone before. Richie had smuggled him in one or two times, but that only happened when the older boy knew Eddie was coming. Since this was so impromptu, Eddie would have to figure out which window was which for himself. He lifted his flashlight, still switched off, and made his gamble, tapping gently against one of the windows. The curtains were drawn tightly, but they weren't thick enough to block out light, and Eddie could see a lamp on somewhere in the room.

He got no response, so he tapped again, a little harder this time. Soon, the window creaked and then was flung open, revealing a wide-eyed yet clearly drowsy Richie. "Eddie?" he hissed, already beginning to unhook the screen before Eddie could even reply.

"Let me in," he whispered urgently, "I think your dad's awake." He handed the flashlight through the window, fortunate to have chosen the right place to enter, and Richie moved back, giving Eddie room to hike up a leg and then use the momentum to throw himself over the room. He lost balance, catching his foot on the windowsill by accident, and before he could tumble to the ground, Richie's arms hooked around his, lifting him up by the armpits. _My hero._

"Move your foot," the taller boy whispered, so close to his ear that Eddie shivered. He did as he was told, unhooking himself from the sill and stumbling. Richie's grip on him didn't loosen until he had both feet steady under him. The taller boy moved back, flipping his hair out of his eyes and tilting his head. "What are you doing here, Eds?" he asked quietly. He didn't even have his glasses on. _He really must've just rolled out of bed._

Eddie shrunk back. Richie probably didn't want him here right now, huh? _I should've just gone back home._ He shrugged, much like he'd shrugged at his mother hours and hours before. Verbal communication would have failed him in that moment.

Richie didn't seem to mind that Eddie hadn't said anything, moving past him to peer out the window and make sure nobody else was there. "Okay, well, that's cool. I couldn't sleep, anyway." Even though he was pretty sure Richie was lying, relief flooded Eddie's mind, greater than any other emotion he was feeling. Richie fixed the screen and shut the window as quietly as he could, reaching over to grab his glasses off of his shelf as he returned to Eddie's side. "Are you okay? Is everything okay?" The questions would seem uncharacteristic to an outsider, someone who knew Richie only for his loud mouth and vulgar jokes, but Eddie knew Richie got like this when he was worried.

"I..." Eddie truly didn't know how to answer. Would it be overreacting to say things weren't okay? He lifted a hand, rubbing at his face uncomfortably. Richie took hold of that hand, pulling it closer to him, and although Eddie felt jumpy, reminded of his mother's iron grip on him earlier in the day, he forced himself to relax. _It's just Richie. He's not gonna hurt you._

Richie turned his hand over, inspecting his nails. His chocolatey eyes lifted, locking on Eddie's. "Christ, Eds, were you sandpapering your fingers or what?" he quipped, but Eddie knew he knew. Richie always knew. His hand closed around Eddie's, tugging him over to the window. "Come on," he instructed quietly, throwing one leg over it.

"Where are we going?"

"A place we can have a conversation without whispering." Richie helped him out of the window, his warm hands guiding Eddie's small figure until they were both outside and on the ground safely. The taller boy grabbed onto his hand, leading him forward through the lawn and onto the sidewalk. The crisp midnight air surrounded them and closing in tightly, and Eddie glanced up, eyes scanning the heavens. The dark sky was as clear as it been when he'd first stepped outside, vast and speckled with stars. Oh, how he ached to be just another star in the sky, just another bristle in the brush, just another flower in the garden. But then, he supposed, he wouldn't have his Losers, and everyone deserved friends like the Losers.

They walked swiftly in silence, aside from their breathing, which synchronized rather quickly. Richie pulled him past countless houses until they crossed a street; he pulled Eddie into the cemetery.

"Are you crazy? This late?" Eddie may not have been in a very great mood— or even a talking mood at all— but he still found it possible to bicker a little with Richie now and then, even if he was feeling shitty.

"Don't tell me you believe in ghosts." Richie smirked. "It'll be okay, Eds. You have me and my abounding intelligence." Eddie shook his head, and Richie squeezed his hand. "We're just going up to the garden in the back. There aren't any graves there, anyway."

Eddie sighed, but he didn't protest, so on they went, following the path through the cemetery until the plethora of colorful flowers was in view. They were still in bloom, bright pinks and yellows mixing together to form a color palette of creation. The path got narrower, and Richie and Eddie were forced to walk closer together through the garden, Eddie still clutching tightly to Richie's hand. The taller boy led him to a stone fountain, patting the edge. "Here. This is the best place to talk."

Eddie soaked in the sight of the place as he sat, a weird sort of nostalgia falling down on him. "Have I ever even been here?" The way the flowers swayed in the evening (if one could call it evening when it was this late) was oddly familiar to him. Then again, Eddie was sue he hadn't been to the cemetery many times. His mother would probably hate to know he was here.

It was a good thing she had no idea. 

"Yeah, you've probably been here. 'S a small town, after all, pardner," Richie finished, busting out a voice at the end to make Eddie smile. Richie turned to him, though, his eyes flickering into something more serious, and dread crept up onto Eddie's shoulders. Now they were going to have to actually do the talking, it seemed, and Eddie wasn't sure if he was quite ready for that. "Are you okay?" Richie asked, having returned to a normal volume. Knowing he should be truthful, Eddie slowly shook his head.

"No." He didn't want to cry, but it wasn't up to him anymore. The tears were going to be there soon whether he wanted them to or not. "No," he repeated in a quivering whisper.

"You wanna talk about it?" Richie was stone cold serious, a feat he didn't often accomplish. It took talent, in Eddie's opinion, to be able to switch one's comedic genius on and off. Richie had always had trouble with that, but not when someone was hurt. Never when someone was hurt, especially if that someone was Eddie.

"I dunno," Eddie replied, licking his chapped lips. "There's not really anything to say." That was a lie. There was. There were plenty of things to say. He just didn't know how to say them. "It's, like..." He hesitated, unsure of where he wanted to go with the sentence. And for once in his life, Richie Tozier was silent. "Well, she didn't like it," he finally finished. "The, um—" it was still so uncomfortable to say out loud, but he had to force it out anyway— "nail polish." And he left it at that. With his free hand, he fidgeted with his shirt sleeve. Richie's thumb ran back and forth across Eddie's, ever the comforting presence.

"No?" the boy inquired softly from behind his Coke-bottle lenses. "Well, then she's got terrible taste." Eddie managed a little smile, feeling the pressure of tears building. "I mean, honestly, Eds. She does. They were great. Your nails, I mean. You... and Bev... you did a great job." Richie swallowed hard, glancing away with pink cheeks. _What the fuck is up with him?_ "She shouldn't have messed it up, Eds. It's so dumb... I'm sorry."

Eddie didn't tell Richie not to call him Eds. Instead, he shifted his torso, let his fingers slip from Richie's, and rested his head on the other's shoulder, waiting for the tears. They came, quietly, rolling down his face and soaking into the material of both of the boys' shirts. "'S not your fault," he muttered. They both understood that much. It wasn't Richie's fault, or Eddie's, or even Beverly's, because none of them had put those ideals into Sonia Kaspbrak's head. It was Sonia's fault, Sonia's _stupid_ rules and her _stupid_ customs and her _stupid_ opinions.

Eddie was pretty sure he hated her.

He choked on a sob, and Richie's arm moved from where it had been draped around his shoulders. His fingers slipped into Eddie's hair, and Eddie gripped his shirt, hiding his face in the taller boy's shoulder. Richie had always been his safe haven, his sun peeking through the clouds. Richie was his bright star, the only person who could cheer him up no matter what, and if happiness was an unattainable goal in the moment, then at least Richie was there for him, if only to hold him and console him and tell him everything would be alright even though he wasn't at all in control of those types of things.

He closed his eyes, trying to even out his breathing, but he kept failing, a sob or a hiccup interrupting the rhythm he tried to maintain. An unwelcome chill made its home in his spine, and he shuddered, biting his lip and pondering his situation with the white noise of the flowing water in the fountain. He was probably making it worse for himself by being out— being with _Richie—_ when he was supposed to be sullenly sitting in his room under lock and key and the close watch of his mother. Her scrutiny was tiring, though, and he couldn't bear it anymore. Sonia was stifling, but with Richie, he could breathe.

Richie's hand stopped moving, and Eddie pulled his eyes open, lifting his head slightly. "What's wrong?" he asked blearily, blinking the wetness from his eyes until his vision was clear again. To his horror, he found tears on Richie's cheeks as well. He lifted one of his hands, the other still wrapped tightly in Richie's shirt sleeve, and used his thumb to wipe at the hot tears. "What happened?" he inquired, louder this time.

"It's not _fair,_ Eds," Rich replied, his voice cracking.

 _"What's_ not fair?"

"This!"

Eddie's brow furrowed, and his eyes searched Richie's face in hopes of an answer. Whatever was written on the other boy's expression, Eddie couldn't read it. "What are you talking about? What's wrong?"

"It's—" Richie let out a breath, clearly struggling, and Eddie shifted, angling his body so he was facing the boy head on. _God, the things I would do for you._

"Take your time," he mumbled, desperate to take one of Richie's hands in his again but not wanting to look suspicious. He decided against it, letting his hand drop from Richie's sleeve. He nervously picked at a scab on the side of one of his thumbs, doe-like eyes locking on Richie's.

"Your mom— it's not fair, the way she treats you," Richie finally, eyes blazing. "She can't... How can she do this to you? It's despicable, Eds, it's..."

Eddie shook his head. "She loves me, Richie," he mumbled. "She wants to keep me safe." Did he believe that? To quell the thoughts of doubt, he spoke again as if to try and set it in stone. "She's just trying to protect me."

"Well, she's doing a hell of a shitty job," Richie spat, tears still rolling down his cheeks. "This isn't protecting you, Eddie, can't you see that?"

Eddie turned his head away, shaking it and frowning. "Richie, you don't _understand—"_

"I don't understand _what?_ What don't I understand, Eddie? Tell me," Richie demanded, leaning forward slightly. "She's not helping at all. She's just making everything suck for you. Name one good thing she's done for you."

"Listen," Eddie snapped, "you're way out of line here, Richie, you can't just fucking _say_ stuff like that! You can't— she loves me, she—" Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, coming back for round two. "She's trying," he whispered. "She loves me."

Richie shook his head. "Eds," he said quietly. "She's _hurting_ you."

"She's not," Eddie said fiercely, probably a little too loudly for a late night (or was it now early morning?) conversation. "She's not. She's my mom. She just wants me to be safe. And happy. She cares."

"Eddie..."

"She gives me food!" Eddie fumbled with his words, starting to make excuses because he wasn't ready to face the dreadful truth. He never seemed to be, after all. He wasn't brave like the rest of the Losers. "She gives me a home, and clothes. She gives me everything I need. She _birthed_ me, she _raised_ me," Eddie kept ranting, "she tells me what's wrong and what's right and picks me up when I fall—"

"Eddie," Richie exploded, "she _hurt_ you just because you put a little fucking _paint_ on your nails!”

"She didn't _hurt_ me!" Eddie fought back. "She _helped_ me! She told me what was wrong and showed me how to fix it!"

"Nail polish, Eddie? _Nail polish?_ How is that so wrong? How is that so fucking _evil,_ huh?" Eddie had no answer for him. "If I wore nail polish, would you hate me? Would you fucking _hate_ me, Eddie, would you?" Richie begged, taking Eddie's shoulders.

"I could never hate you," Eddie whispered.

"Yeah, and the same goes for you, so I don't fucking _get_ it, Eds," Richie replied, exasperated. "You wore nail polish _one fucking time._ So what? I don't give a _shit!_ Who cares? You could wear nail polish a million times and it wouldn't make me like you any less. You know that?"

Eddie, his cheeks hot and still covered in glistening tears, shrugged. Did he know that for sure? That Richie would stay with him no matter what? That felt way too good to be true. "That's not the point, Richie, you're missing the—"

"That's _exactly_ the fucking point! Don't you know that it shouldn't matter _what_ the hell you do, and that she should be in your corner anyway?"

"I _guess,_ but she—"

"Yeah, well, you guess right. Gold star for you." Richie shook his head disgustedly. "Mrs. K doesn't pick you up when you fall. She just kicks you while you're _down,_ Eddie."

Not being able to handle the truth infuriated him, and Eddie finally reached his breaking point. "Shut up!" He pounded a fist against Richie's chest, a little harder than one should be hitting one's best friend. "Shut up, shut up, shut _up,_ Richie, shut the _fuck_ up!" he sobbed, shaking his head wildly and banging his fists against Richie's skin with every _'up.'_ "She loves me! She fucking loves me, Richie, she..." Defeated, he slumped forward, his hands curling in the material of Richie's shirt and gripping it tightly. He set his forehead down against Richie's collarbone, nestling close under his chin and sniffling again. "She cares about me. She does," he mumbled again. "She loves me. She loves me." _She loves me. She loves me. She told me herself, she loves me._

Richie gathered Eddie up in his arms, and Eddie, too tired to argue anymore, let him, sliding closer to sit across the taller boy's thighs. Richie didn't say anything else— evidently he'd gotten tired of arguing, too— and the silence surrounded them, gripping their hearts tightly and covering the air with the ugly truth.

Eddie remained there, curled up in Richie's lap and leaning against him, until his chest stopped heaving quite as much and the tears stopped running quite as fast. He hadn't planned on falling asleep here, of all places, clinging tightly to Richie's torso. No, he'd expected to fall asleep quietly, in his own bed, maybe crying himself to sleep. Here, he cried himself to sleep, but it was different here. It was always different when he was outside his house, especially if the wind was ruffling his hair and a soothing hand was running up and down his back.

He drew in a breath, kicking the thoughts of his mother out in an effort to count sheep instead. The sheep weren't very helpful, but the steady beat of Richie's heart was, so Eddie fell asleep in the arms of the one person he could always count on to love him no matter what.


	17. Richie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie sneaks his GameBoy out of the house to visit Eddie, but things quickly go south and feelings are hurt.
> 
> Sorry it has taken me so long to upload. I’ve been going through kind of a lot— a sudden physical ailment has been a huge hindrance to me today. My apologies!!

Richie rolled over onto his side, a yawn leaving his lips. He stretched, arching his back and pointing his toes. Sunbeams from his open window bathed the room in golden light, making him aware that he'd slept in later than he usually did. The boy propped himself up onto his elbows, not bothering to move the hair sticking to his forehead. He'd kicked his blankets off during the night, and rightly so; the room was roasting, especially thanks to the window he'd forgotten to close.

With dismay, he noticed that he'd slept in his glasses. He removed them and rubbed the filthy lenses using the hem of his shirt. It was the wrong material for cleaning glasses— not at all cotton, which was what he was supposed to use to clean them— but he couldn't be bothered to care all that much. His eyes found the clock set atop his bedside table, and he squinted. _Jesus Christ._ It was half past one in the afternoon. Why had he slept so late?

Ah, now he remembered. As he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, stretching his arms far above his head, he let himself indulge in the memory of doe-like eyes, neatly combed strands of hair, and a tidy shirt with no stains in sight. And raw, pink, beat-up nail beds. Richie yawned again, remembering petite Eddie Kaspbrak falling asleep on his shoulder while perched atop the edge of the cemetery's water fountain. Richie lifted himself up onto his tiptoes, squeezing his eyes shut tight, for one last stretch before he dropped back down to cross over and close the window. How had he left it open after last night's shebang?

He remembered gently shaking Eddie awake and walking him home, carrying him for part of the way. Even more clear was the memory of boosting Eddie up into his bedroom window, letting the boy stand on his laced fingers (despite the way the brunet complained that it was too dangerous) because, since Eddie hadn't snuck out the kitchen window, he hadn't left it open for himself like he usually would.

_"Eds, you're going to break my fingers—"_

_"Shut the fuck_ up, _Richie, you pussy. I weigh, like, thirty pounds."_

He was honestly surprised Eddie had even kept _talking_ to him last night after their explosive fight in the garden. Eddie had been _so_ mad, and all Richie had been trying to do was show him what was going on. Tell him the truth, lay it out for him, help him like a good friend should.

Evidently, Eddie did _not_ find that helpful _or_ a quality of a good friend, because by the end of their conversation, he'd been so frustrated that he had started to hit at Richie's chest. Now, it didn't necessarily _bother_ Richie if Eddie hit him— they were horsing around often, and normally, Richie did it right back— but it always seemed to sting a little harsher when Eddie was truly mad at him. Richie pulled the collar of his shirt away from his skin, peering down and inspecting his chest. Only one little bruise was present, and Richie knew Eddie hadn't meant to get so worked up that he hurt Richie, so he let it be, trotting to his door instead.

The new essential question: what to have for breakfast? Of course, there were probably waffles in the freezer, or perhaps there was cereal in the cabinet, or maybe there were even eggs in a hidden away container in the back of the fridge— because Maggie loved her fried eggs and didn't want anyone else to find and eat them, but she was really only hiding them from Wentworth, since Richie knew exactly where she liked to put them.

He padded out of his room, sighing softly as he walked. There was a little bit of devil inside him that said he didn't want to eat in his own house this morning, but as he trotted into the kitchen, he found none other than Maggie Tozier with her morning coffee at the table. Actually, he reveled as he crossed over into the kitchen, maybe it wasn't quite a _morning_ coffee anymore.

"Oh. Look who's finally up," Maggie commented, glancing up from her newspaper. "Morning, Sleepyhead."

"Hey, Mom." The kitchen tiles were cold against his bare feet, so Richie walked quickly over to the cabinets. He stretched again, and his shirt came up to expose the lower half of his abdomen.

"Is that shirt too small? Maybe we need to go shopping."

"Nah," Richie replied immediately, pulling a face. _Who_ willingly _goes shopping?_ "I like this shirt." Translation: _Eddie_ liked that shirt, and there was no way Richie was getting rid of it. "It's not too small."

"Whatever you say, honey," his mother murmured dubiously, her eyes returning to the article she was reading.

"Did Dad leave already?"

"Yeah, about an hour ago. Why? Do you need him for something?" Maggie sipped at her coffee again, and Richie wished he could have some. He knew, though, that he was hyperactive enough without it— that was what his mother would say, anyway, so there was no way Maggie would give him any.

As he rooted around in the cabinet for anything that wasn't boring old corn flakes, he answered, "Oh, kinda. I just wanted to know if I could take my GameBoy with me today. 'Cause, y'know, I haven't gotten to take it out of the house yet," he said spontaneously. It was a spur of the moment thing, but it had come to him quickly as a way he might be able to cheer Eddie up. He didn't yet turn around to look at his mother's expression yet, holding his breath and bottling up as much hope as he could. _This has to work._ There was no way he could just sneak over to Eddie's house _empty-handed._

"Hmm. I don't know about that, Rich," Maggie began uncertainly. She set her newspaper back down against the table, and Richie heard the pages rustle. He gulped, spotting a box of Honey Nut Cheerios and snatching it out of the cabinet. Finally, he swiveled back around. _Ugh._ The look on her face was one of uncertainty and doubt. There wasn't a very good chance she'd say yes. _What’s a man gotta do to get some rights around here?_

"Come on, Mom, _please?_ It's been weeks!" Richie sighed. "I'm tired of sitting around here and playing it by myself," he complained, slamming the cabinet door. 

"Careful with that."

"Yeah, sorry," he grumbled, pulling the fridge door open to search for the milk. "Just, please, all I want is— are we out of milk?"

"Yeah, I haven't been to the store yet."

"Dammit!"

 _"Language,_ Richie!" Maggie scolded, glaring at him over the top of her wire-rimmed reading glasses.

Richie groaned. He should've known not to swear in front of his mother— usually, he was good at covering that up, but this was a certain kind of morning, as it turned out. He flung the cabinet door back open, shoving the box of cereal back in and the plopping down into his chair. "Yeah, sorry," he said again, slouching low in his seat.

"Listen, Richie," Maggie began with a resigned sigh, "you can bring your GameBoy out—"

Richie perked up immediately, straightening up in his seat as his eyebrows shot up. _"Really?!"_ he exclaimed ecstatically. His hopes and dreams soared, picturing himself sitting cross-legged in Eddie Kaspbrak's bedroom, jamming his thumbs aggressively into the controls and buttons on his GameBoy and then passing the handheld console over for Eddie to have a turn.

"I'm not finished," his mother said, raising an eyebrow. "Sonia Kaspbrak called last night."

Richie froze, panic sliding into his system and creeping up his spine. "Umm..." he muttered, trying his best to sound innocent. "Okay? What's that got to do with anything?"

"She said Eddie has been breaking the rules an awful lot lately," Maggie said, picking up her mug and taking another swig of the hot beverage. "Which he doesn't normally do, I'm sure you know that."

"Well, yeah." Richie bounced his leg nervously, letting his gaze slide to the side. He didn't say anything else, opting out of engaging in the conversation very much for fear of giving himself away. He was an _okay_ liar, but he tended to get heated in his opinions about Eddie's mother (and all her bullshit rules), and not just because of the jokes about fornication he made about her, so this was one of those times where he forced himself to stay quiet.

"Sonia told me he's been hanging out with you." She tilted her head forward. "Now, Richie, I know we talked about this a while ago, so maybe you don't remember." Her carefully articulated words were laced with an ambush waiting to happen— Richie was definitely expected to remember. "But it was my understanding that we agreed that you were going to leave Eddie alone if he wasn't supposed to be going places with everyone."

Richie grimaced. Had he agreed on that? The thing was, he didn't quite know for sure. He'd been zoned out for most of the conversation he'd had with his parents that night, instead angrily focused on the fact that Sonia Kaspbrak was a load of hot, steaming garbage. So he supposed he _hadn't_ really been listening, but if his mother was saying that he agreed to something he didn't remember, then it was best to nod along and pretend like he knew exactly what she was talking about.

So, nodding along and pretending like he knew exactly what she was talking about, he shrugged helplessly. "I _know,_ Ma," he began, in a voice as pleading as he could muster, "and I _try,_ I promise, but he gets lonely, all cooped up in there, and you know Mrs. K keeps him inside way too much! It's not fair, really," Richie whined, laying it on thick in hopes that his mother would cave and change her mind.

"Richie, you have to acknowledge Sonia's rules. They're there for a reason." Maggie smoothed the newspaper out flat against the table with her free hand, locking gazes with him. "You need to start recognizing and respecting your elders, honey."

"I _do_ recognize my elders! _And_ I respect them!" Richie argued. "I respect you guys, I do _all_ my chores and stuff. But Mrs. K is so _mean,_ it's not even fair. She ruins everything."

 _"Sweetie,"_ Maggie sighed wearily, and Richie _knew_ she was on his side, he was positively convinced. Now it was just a matter of coercing her into admitting that Sonia's rules were _bullshit_ and that Richie should be free to go see him whenever he wanted to! "I understand that you don't think her rules are fair," Maggie argued, "but she's his _mother,_ and not all households work the same. Eddie gets in trouble for breaking the rules just like you do."

"But what do _you_ think—"

"Don't you start, now, Richie," Maggie warned, lifting her mug to her lips and blowing gently on the hot liquid. "We are not having this conversation."

"We're _clearly_ having this conversation, so if you would just _listen_ to me—"

"Richard."

Richie sat back in his chair, rolling his eyes harder than should've been possible and lifting a hand to adjust his glasses by the side. "Fine. Sorry. So... what's your point?" he finally mumbled.

"You can bring the GameBoy out of the house," Maggie continued, "but you can't go over to Eddie's place."

 _"What?!"_ Richie's world came crashing down right then and there. Even if not being able to see Eddie for _one day_ wasn't that big of a deal, it meant a lot to him. He _had_ to go see Eddie so he could cheer him up!

"He's _grounded,_ Richie," Maggie scolded. "You can't be sneaking around with him—"

"We were never _sneaking around!"_

"Don't make me rescind my offer."

"What's rescind mean?"

"Richie."

"I don't know what it _means!"_

His mother eyed him with a stern gaze, making it clear that her decision was set in stone, and he slumped forward, defeated. He lowered his head until his cheek rested against the cool wood of the kitchen table. "Mom," he mumbled. "A GameBoy isn't fun if you can't play with your _best friend."_

"Honey, I'm not going to change my mind just because he's your best friend." Maggie picked her newspaper up again. "Why don't you go play with Stan or Beverly?"

Richie frowned, kicking at the floor. "They don't _like_ video games." He'd lost his appetite. It didn't matter that there was no milk, now, anyway, because he wasn't hungry enough for cereal.

"Well, then I guess you'll just have to play by yourself until Eddie is allowed to have friends over," Maggie mused nonchalantly. "That's my final answer."

Now ill-tempered and brooding, Richie stood from the table, his shoulders slouching as he made his way back to the hallway. "Fine."

"Where are you going? You haven't eaten anything," Maggie called after him as he slunk off toward his room, and Richie paused, glancing back at her with a deep frown.

"I'm not hungry anymore. I'll grab a sandwich later," he dismissed before disappearing around the corner and shutting the door to his room tightly behind him. He threw himself down onto his bed, burying his face in the pillows so that they muffled the loud groan that he emitted next. He could go over and hang with Bev or Stan anyway, but his whole plan was to brighten Eddie's day! He couldn't do that by _respecting Sonia Kaspbrak's rules._ That was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard!

Richie huffed, still pouting around his room. Then the best idea came to him: why couldn't he just disobey direct orders? Eddie had to do it all the time, and Richie would be lying if he said he _didn't_ find it hard to play by the rules every single day. So what if he just... didn't?

He rolled out of his bed again and ran to his desk, picking his GameBoy up from where it had been sitting on the surface. He examined it, and then his eyes strayed to his doorway. He could just tell Maggie he was going to someone _else's_ house. He could probably get off the hook, right? Get out of the situation scot-free?

 _Fuck it._ He _had_ to see Eddie today, and he wouldn't rest until he did. Richie threw a clean shirt over his head, shimmied into a random pair of jeans, and yanked his shoes on, hopping on one foot as he made his way to the door. He crossed the house quickly and silently, still clutching his GameBoy tightly to his chest. He made a break for the door, and then he heard Maggie's call: "Where are you going?" _Dammit. Foiled again._

"Bill's!" Richie quickly answered, pulling the answer out of his ass. He hadn't considered it earlier until his split second decision— Bill liked to play video games a lot more than Stan and Beverly did, and Richie knew Bill would probably cover for him if Maggie called the Denbrough's house asking of his whereabouts. He just had to hope Bill would be home to answer the phone.

"Be home before dinner!"

"Sure thing," Richie said, even though he knew he wouldn't be paying attention to the time while he was at Eddie's house where there were far more important things to pay attention to. After all, he only had so much to give, what with his short attention span and all.

The raven-haired boy's footsteps were light and airy as he flew out of the door and into the yard. He grinned, yanking his bicycle up from where it had been laying in the yard and throwing a leg over it. He took off into the hot afternoon, using one hand to steer and holding his GameBoy in the other. He furiously pumped his legs, pedaling as fast as he could. His destination: the Kaspbrak residence.

—

"That's not fair! What the fuck, that's _so_ stupid," Eddie exclaimed, shaking the console in his hands. Richie laughed, watching him rage quit the game by closing the device so that the screen powered down by itself.

He held a hand out for Eddie to slap the GameBoy back into. "You having trouble?"

Eddie threw his hands up into the air. “That one’s fucking _ridiculous!"_ he exclaimed. "It was designed to make me want to jump off a bridge, I think."

"You know, I beat that one in ten minutes—"

"Shut the fuck up."

Richie laughed, reaching over to tousle his hair. "I could've helped, you know, before you closed the damn thing," he pointed out, for once a genuine offer. He didn't mind helping Eddie out. Only every once in while, though, so it didn't look suspicious. He couldn't be having that.

"I don't want your stupid help. You'd just brag the whole time," Eddie retorted.

"No way! I'd help!" Richie protested.

"Really?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die, Eds." Richie winked, flipping the GameBoy open. "I'll show you how a real man does it."

"Beep beep!" Eddie snuggled in close, anyway, digging his feet under the blankets and nearly leaning his head on Richie's shoulder. The raven-haired boy's heart went crazy, thumping wildly in his chest like a caged animal dying to get out. He prayed that his palm wouldn't get sweaty while he was in the middle of jamming his thumbs into the buttons on his GameBoy. "Look," Eddie said, reaching over to jab a finger into the screen, "you're missing the coins—"

"You're not supposed to get every single last coin, Eddiekins, it'd take a year and a half," Richie replied with a snort, batting his hand out of the way. "Move, I can't see."

"You idiot! You're gonna die—"

"Maybe if you stopped shouting in my ear—"

"Dammit!" they both exclaimed in unison, watching as Mario fell into a hole and Richie lost another of his limited supply of precious lives.

"You're not any better than _me,_ you asshole!" Eddie exclaimed, shaking his head. "Oh my god."

"You shoulda thought about that before you closed the thing and gave up GameBoy rights!" Richie shot back, restarting the level. "Now be quiet. I'm trying to focus."

"Like _your_ empty brain can actually do any focusing," Eddie scoffed, but he complied, settling down and resting his head back down in the crook of Richie's neck. Richie felt his pulse accelerate. He was sure his palms were getting sweaty by now. It was a good thing they were nowhere near Eddie, or Richie just knew he'd get laughed at.

"My brain isn't empty," Richie scolded, "it's full of love for your mom."

"It better not be," Eddie muttered, so quietly Richie almost didn't hear.

"What?" He glanced to the side, gaze locking on Eddie, who was still pressed up close.

"Nothing," Eddie quickly said. "Pay attention." He reached up, pushing on Richie's jaw so he would look down at the handheld console again. Richie obediently complied, continuing the level like nothing had happened. Eddie's hand didn't retreat all the way back to his lap, though; Richie could feel it resting on his shoulder, branding a print into his skin to match the holes that his eyes always bored into the side of Richie's skull. That was right— Richie had seen Eddie staring before. He didn't mind, though.

He liked it.

Butterflies forced their way into his stomach. He was lucky he'd played this level enough to know it like the back of his hand, because he could barely pay attention. Instead, he tried to fend off the tirade of amorous words that threatened to come pouring from his mouth at any second, their destination being the heart of Eddie Kaspbrak. That couldn't happen yet— Richie wasn't ready for that to happen. He'd seen Eddie in his Freese's shirt, shirtless, and even in damn nail polish. By now, it was clear Richie _liked_ him. But he couldn't just bring it up randomly! It had to be perfect. It had to be timed well, and in a place that meant a lot to the both of them.

_Not here. Not now. Don't do it, Tozier._

Fortunately, he was able to stave off the desire to pour his heart out, using the jittery energy to force his thumbs into the GameBoy even harder. "Jesus Christ, Rich, you're gonna jam one of the buttons," Eddie murmured in a voice barely louder than a whisper. It was way too close to Richie's ear. Richie didn't tell him that.

"I'm not gonna jam one of the buttons. I'm not stupid. My dad would literally kill me." Richie clenched his jaw tightly, dodging and weaving around his adversaries to finally reach the flag at the end of the level. "Aha!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "I told you I could do it."

"It took you two whole tries," Eddie teased, sticking his tongue out. "It would've only taken me one."

"What are you talking about? You literally died, like, sixty times—"

"Richie," Eddie laughed, his head falling back to thump gently against his headboard. "Beep beep."

"Yeah, whatever," Richie grumbled, his cheeks flushing pink. "You're just mad that your IQ is lower than your shoe size."

"Who always has the As on his report card?"

"Hey! I have a rare gem or two sometimes!"

Eddie laughed, his head falling back to press into Richie's shoulder, and Richie basked in the joy of completing his task. His main goal, the only reason he had come here in the first place, was to put a smile on Eddie's face. Now that several grins, whether small or huge, had come and gone, Richie could call his forbidden visit a success.

He still remembered Maggie Tozier's warning, her fervent insistence that he not show up at Eddie's house today. But how _couldn't_ he?! Eddie was alone, not allowed out of the house (even locked in his room, as Richie had discovered and been infuriated at), and Sonia was at work! It was the perfect opportunity, and Richie had snatched it, taken it with fragile hands and made it his. And now here he was, with Eddie, just the two of them— something Richie always seemed to crave no matter what the circumstances were.

"When does your mom get back?" Richie asked, glancing to Eddie's open window and remembering what a struggle it had been for him to climb up without the help of Stan and with a GameBoy in his left hand. His feet had been frantically scrabbling along the siding of Eddie's house, desperate for a grip that would boost him up. In the end, he'd climbed the tree nearby and jumped. It was dangerous, but he'd only banged his knee, so Richie saw it as an absolute win.

"You know the answer to that already," Eddie mumbled, his eyes falling closed. "You only ask me every single day you come over."

"Yeah, I'm just so excited to see her every day, I can't help it," Richie remarked. He nearly added a shrug and then remembered he couldn't disturb the peace of Eddie laying his head on his shoulder. So he didn't move a muscle. "You want another turn?" he asked, genuinely. Nah, that was a little too nice. "We can see how shit you are at level 10 compared to me."

"Mm-mm," Eddie denied, his cheek squished against Richie's bony shoulder. His eyes remained closed, and they stayed there for a second: two boys, cuddling in bed. Richie forced himself to focus on other things so he didn't have to fidget— the chirping birds outside the house, the way the wind blew the branches of the tree he could see from the window, the way Eddie's breaths were so soft and fragile and small, just like him.

_Holy shit, I'm so fucked._

Just when Richie thought Eddie would fall asleep for a much needed nap, the boy sat up, his cheeks flaming. "Are you hungry?"

"We can't go out, Eds," Richie muttered.

"Yeah, but..." Eddie's shoulders slumped. "Yeah. Damn."

"I'm sorry." Richie reached over to ruffle his hair.

"Don't apologize. It doesn't suit you."

"Mm. What does?"

"What?" Eddie glanced up, fiddling with his fingers.

Richie repeated his question with different words. "What _suits_ me?"

"Well, I don't know," Eddie said slowly, the baffled look clear on his face. "It was just an expression."

"I meant, like... you know. What _suits_ me?" Richie inquired again, unsure of a better way to put it. He just needed to know what Eddie Kaspbrak thought he should be like. Whatever Eddie wanted, Richie would do. He wasn't a slave— not to Eddie, at least, but to love... maybe.

However, Eddie remained quiet, averting his eyes to stare at his plain bedsheets. He didn't answer, still fidgeting, and Richie wished he would've kept his damn mouth shut. Nothing sounded good coming out of him unless it was a rude, offensive sex joke. His side felt cold where Eddie had once been leaning against it.

"Nevermind," Richie finally said, ducking his head slightly out of embarrassment. "Just forget it, I didn't—"

"Anything," Eddie interrupted thoughtfully. "Anything suits you. Anything other than, like... being sad." Eddie reached up, fingertips brushing against Richie's cheek. He seemed to change his mind, just poking the raven-haired boy once. "I dunno. It's dumb." Richie shook his head. He didn't think it was dumb. In fact, his cheeks were up in flames, feeling hotter than the Sahara with Eddie so close. "What's wrong with your face?" Eddie asked, ruining the moment, and Richie laughed nervously, pushing him back slightly.

"I was just starting to think about how much I miss your mom," he sputtered, searching for a foothold that would make him look normal. Conveniently, mom jokes were easy to think of and even easier to make, since they were his trademark. "I love her a lot, you know. She's my soulmate."

"No, _I_ am," mumbled Eddie, though his lips barely moved.

And Richie froze.

He had no idea if Eddie had actually said it or if he’d hallucinated it. His pulse spiked, and he inclined his head forward a bit, wide eyes locked on Eddie's, which were avoiding him at all costs. _What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck._ "Huh?"

"Nothing," Eddie answered way too quickly. "I didn't say anything. Are— Are you hearing things?" Eddie blinked rapidly, woeful eyes finally darting up to meet Richie's gaze. "Do you need to go to the doctor? Your face is red, too," he began to ramble, clearly flustered. "You know, that can be a really bad sign. It's a common symptom of—"

"Eds," Richie interrupted.

"Eddie," corrected the smaller boy. "And _what?_ I'm just telling the truth." The defensive tone in the sentence was not lost on Richie.

"What'd you say?" Richie asked again, leaning a little closer. Eddie leaned back. Richie leaned closer. Again, Eddie leaned back.

"Nothing, dipshit, I didn't— I didn't say anything."

"Yes you did." Richie's eyes gleamed with the familiar need to know more. Curiosity killed the cat, maybe, but satisfaction brought it back, and Richie didn't plan on leaving without his answer. "Come on, Eds, what'd you say?"

"I—" Eddie paused, swallowing hard. He leaned away from Richie again, but his eyes remained locked on the taller boy's. "Richie, I didn't say anything. Seriously."

Disappointment sparked in Richie's heart, a mellow summer feeling that often tore him apart. It wasn't unfamiliar to him, that disappointment that started in his chest and snaked all the way down into the soles of his feet until it enveloped him. He had either actually heard Eddie wrong or pushed too hard, and now the effort had been wasted. Richie looked stupid and Eddie was uncomfortable. Desperate for some type of closure, he cleared his throat. "Are you sure?"

"Richie, I'm pretty sure I'd know if I said something to you," Eddie bit back, the corners of his lips turning down in that careful way they always did. Richie's heart fell, sinking low, low, and lower until he wished he could melt into the floor. It couldn't get any worse than this, he was sure. Much to Richie's horror, though, Eddie went on to murmur, "I think you should go."

"Eds—"

"It's Eddie." The brunet still wouldn't look Richie in the eye. "My— My mom's gonna be home soon," Eddie stammered, and Richie could tell that that hadn't been his initial thought. Had Eddie been scrambling for a reason to kick Richie out all day now? But he'd been laughing, and smiling, and playing Super Mario...

"Okay," Richie shrugged, trying to stay as calm as possible. "Sucks that you're kicking me out before me and your mom finally reunite," he cracked, but the enthusiasm wasn't there. The joke was empty, just like the hole in his heart. Quite dramatic, really, but Richie had never been anything less than theatrical.

"Stop it, Rich," Eddie said, shaking his head. "Just stop, okay?"

So Richie was done. "Yeah," he replied, defeated and even a little shameful. "Uh. I'll catch you around."

"Yeah."

Richie swallowed hard. _Wow. Amazing. Just fucking peachy._ He took his GameBoy with him, his right side still feeling freezing from where Eddie had moved away. He saluted, held back a nervous _'tell your mom hi for me,'_ and unhooked the screen of Eddie's bedroom window, glancing down at the daunting drop. There was no point in trying to get down the long way. He was going to have to jump. He threw a leg over the edge, inhaled carefully, and then let himself fall down from Eddie's window, his legs buckling when he hit the ground.

And when he landed on his knees a little too hard, he told himself he deserved it.


	18. Eddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie is concerned about Richie and wants to know more about how the boy is feeling, but he soon realizes that he has bigger problems to worry about than Richie— such as a maniac delinquent who loves to play with fire. 
> 
> Happy Halloween, everyone!

Eddie crouched, quickly sifting through the pile of rocks that had been left at the base of the tree the Losers always met at. He was on the hunt for a smooth rock to skip, but there weren't many good ones. "Bill, this pile is shit," he called to his friend.

Bill, sitting a few yards away under a different broad oak tree, called back: "That w-was the b-b-best I could do!"

Eddie stood, turning to the taller boy with a hand on his hip. "I don't believe that for a second." He rolled his eyes. _You've got to be kidding me._ All he wanted was to skip rocks, and he couldn't even have that! "When I said it was your turn to collect rocks I didn't mean grab a handful of random ass ones from the river bank. I thought we agreed—"

"Eddie, I'll help you pick out new ones," Stan interrupted, standing from his spot on the ground next to Bill. "I wanted to skip some, anyway."

Bill's cheeks turned pink. "Hey!" he complained, and Eddie did feel a little guilty for interrupting. He knew Bill had a little bit of a thing for Stanley, after all— though he wasn't sure if it was just admiration or if it was a secret, hidden, _gay_ little bit of a thing for him. "W-We were in th-the middle of a c-c-conversation!" Bill finished, interrupting Eddie's internal monologue, and the shorter boy winced. _Oops._

"Key word: were," Stan replied jokingly. He wasn't always so deadpan. Everyone thought of Stan as a buzzkill, but Eddie could remember countless times the curly-haired boy had said or done something playful like this. "Just go talk to everyone else or whatever. I'm sure that their topic of discussion is... _riveting,"_ he commented dryly, once again flexing his extensive vocabulary without really meaning to.

When Bill glanced over to the rest of their five-person group, Eddie's eyes followed. His gaze moved right past Ben and Mike and instead he miserably faced the fact that Richie Tozier wasn't there. Eddie could picture him now: sprawled out on the ground, halfway draped across Beverly's lap, blabbering about something to do with Ken and Ryu. His stomach squirmed.

Unfortunately, Beverly nor Richie were there. The two were still at Bill's house. They'd opted out of the outing in favor of staying behind to play video games, claiming that they'd be there waiting for when the rest were ready to come back and watch a movie. Richie had seemed especially disinterested in coming along, and Eddie couldn't help but to feel bad about it.

He remembered the time they'd spent together three days before, nearly _cuddling_ (but not quite, because it wasn't _like_ that) before the whole event had been cut short by awkward tension. He could've changed his mind then and there, gone back to Richie and groveled on his hands and knees for him just to stop ignoring him, but what good would that do? It would just embarrass him for life— especially if he did it in front of everyone else.

The truth was, Eddie had been scared. He hadn't meant to say anything out loud in the first place, but he'd replied in a rather suggestive way to one of Richie's mom jokes, saying something about it being him instead. And when Richie had heard him, well, it had all gone to shit. Eddie had frozen up, terrified that Richie would laugh, would tease, would have so much fun mocking him for being a _gay boy,_ and that fear had driven him to push Richie away, so far away that they hadn't spoken a word to each other in three days.

In fact, the person Eddie had been speaking to the most had been _Sonia._ He'd begged and pleaded with her to lift her grounding on him, let him go outside and enjoy the _heat_ and the _nature_ , all the stuff kids like him were _supposed_ to be doing during the tail end of summer. She had been firm for the first day and a half, but Eddie had worked her down to just a very strict curfew. He couldn't go out before lunch and he was to be home no later than five P.M. It was probably to make sure he wouldn't eat any meals outside of home, to further monitor his dietary habits, but Eddie couldn't care. Normally, he would've disagreed, haggled her down to a later time for his curfew, but it was such a miracle that she was finally letting him outside again in the first place that he hadn't rebutted.

Eddie may have been stuck with a shitty early curfew, but that was something he could suck it up and deal with. The only thing he was having trouble with now was Richie. Day in and day out, all his thoughts were _Richie, Richie, Richie._ It had been hard enough to keep his mind off of the boy before the rift had formed because of the tension, but now... now thoughts of Richie came ten times more often.

The worst part, Eddie thought miserably as he followed Stan down to the very edge of the river bank, was that he couldn't even do anything about it. Far too embarrassed and shameful to flag Richie down and initiate the apology, Eddie could only wait in hopes of Richie reaching out instead. So far, he'd been out of luck.

Richie didn't _want_ to talk to him. Richie didn't want to be around him. Richie didn't even want to fucking _look_ at him. While Eddie had once been able to catch Richie looking his way often, today was absolutely not the case. Richie barely looked over, and when he did, it had been to say something in response to Stan or to Bill. Not to him. Never to him.

Eddie sucked in a breath, tightening the strap of his fanny pack around his waist as they reached the edge of the river bank. Maybe Richie wasn't avoiding him because of the conversation where Eddie had distanced himself. Maybe it was the fanny pack. Or maybe his hair. Or maybe the clothes he wore. Speaking of clothes... The boy recalled that one of Richie's shirts was sitting on his desk, washed and folded nicely and waiting for Eddie to man up and return it already. But how could he do something so bold when he could barely even glance in Richie's direction?

Maybe that wasn't true, Eddie admitted glumly as he crouched and began to search for smooth, round rocks. In actuality, Eddie found himself staring at the side of Richie's head far more often than normal, searching for any sign of Richie paying attention to him. The fact that there was none was driving Eddie up the wall. Usually, Richie was so interactive. He looked at, messed with, spoke to Eddie so often that Eddie was going crazy in his absence.

Perhaps he had a small case of separation anxiety.

"Are you okay?" Stan said, finally interrupted the silence that had been dragging on and on.

"What do you mean?" Eddie replied, nervously avoiding his gaze. "Of course I'm okay, why wouldn't I be? All we did was walk over here, I didn't hurt myself or anything."

"Not that. You're quieter than usual," Stan accused, clearly not buying it. "There's something on your mind." Eddie swallowed hard. He had to fix this. He'd already exposed himself to Bill; two people knowing would make it all too real. Maybe that was why he couldn't tell Richie, he mused.

Pulling himself from his own thoughts, he shook his head at Stan. "This is how I always am," he murmured, fingers grazing over the warm rocks under his feet. The rushing water of the river distracted him, almost luring him in. A few miles down, the river got more dangerous. The white rapids were strong and formidable. Here, though, there was nothing to worry about; the water was tranquil, slowly moving and good for skipping rocks.

"Is it about your mom?" Stan asked tentatively, and Eddie felt his insides constrict. Everyone and their brother knew his business, it seemed. Had Beverly spread the word? No, she wouldn't do that. She understood. Had Richie...?

_He wouldn't, either._

Firmly planted in that belief, Eddie decided that Stan must have just been very observant. After all, he could almost always catch Eddie in a lie, even when his own mother couldn't. Fortunately, Eddie didn't have to be untruthful. It wasn't about his mother. "No," he said plainly. "It's fine, Stan. Really. I'm good," he insisted, even though he wasn't. A nice, flat rock caught his attention, and he picked it up, holding it out for Stan to take. "Here."

The sandy-haired boy raised an eyebrow. "Weren't you the one who was trying to skip rocks in the first place?"

"Oh." Eddie quickly rescinded his offer, his hand coming back to his body. He gripped the rock tightly and averted his eyes. "But you..." He trailed off. Stan had said he wanted to skip rocks, too, hadn't he? Maybe he'd just been lying to help Eddie. Some people did that, he'd discovered, and while Eddie didn't entirely understand it, he supposed it was a nice deed. He lied to get away from his mother and spend time with his friends, after all. It wasn't exactly the same, but it didn't matter anyway.

"How's the bakery?" Eddie finally asked, switching gears and hoping that Stan would follow along with him. There was no reason to ask about Mrs. Uris's business, but Eddie couldn't think of anything else to say, and it was true that he tended to blurt out the most random of things.

Besides, this was a good opportunity. Eddie could just pretend that Stan wasn't onto him, and everything would be fine, and when they went back to the group, he'd keep on ignoring Richie like it didn't matter. Even though it did matter. It did matter, so much that Eddie's heart hurt, and normally, he'd be worried about all the illnesses that listed chest pain as a symptom, but this time, he knew it was Richie. It was always Richie.

"You should talk to him," said Stan, proving that he knew exactly what was going on. Eddie felt bile rise in the back of his throat, terrified at the idea of another person knowing his darkest secret, but Stan moved nonchalantly, quietly adding another rock to their slowly growing collection. Maybe he thought they were just friends. That was reasonable, right? Two best friends fighting was still a big deal, anyway.

 _Yes I should._ "No I shouldn't." Eddie took one of the rocks, turning it over in his hand and then glancing out at the river. Could he make it all the way across? "That's the worst idea I've ever heard come out of you, Stan. I thought you were the smart one." He threw the rock. It only skipped three times.

"I am the smart one. I'm right," Stan replied indignantly, picking up his own small rock. He threw it out across the river as if to show Eddie how it was done, the rock nearly reaching the other bank. "He's been so gloomy lately."

"No he hasn't." Eddie's shoulders slumped. Richie wasn't gloomy at all. He was perfectly fine. He'd been joking and laughing with everyone all day— everyone but him.

"Not in front of you," Stan corrected, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "He doesn't want you to know he's upset."

"Then why are you telling me?" Eddie tried again. His rock skipped twice this time. _Come on._ Normally, he was better at this.

"I hate to see him like that," came the taller boy's response. Eddie could feel Stan's eyes on him. "You, too." Was Eddie really so bothered that Stan could tell? His cheeks heated, turning pink. How embarrassing.

"Yeah, well..." Eddie toed at the rocks on the ground. "I can't talk to him."

"Why not?"

"He doesn't want to talk to me." Eddie shrugged loosely, looking for the perfect rock. It was probably the shape of the rocks tripping him up. He was good at skipping rocks, beaten only by Stan and Mike.

"How do you figure?" Stan skipped another rock, and Eddie watched it, counting in his head. It stopped at eight.

"He won't even _look_ at me." Eddie picked up the best rock in the pile, inspecting it from all angles to check for impurities. This had to be the one. _Third time's the charm._

"He's just scared," Stan said by way of explanation. "He won't reach out himself. Probably thinks you hate him." Stan paused. "Do you?"

"No," Eddie answered, far too quickly. He was amazed at how much Stan seemed to know about everything. How did he have the time to pay attention so much? “No, of _course_ not,” he murmured again, to really drive the point home.

Stan nodded, satisfied, as if that was the answer he'd been expecting. "He needs a little bit of a push," he said, returning to his main point. The thin boy hesitated for another second and then asked, "What happened?" So even Stan the Man couldn't resist the curiosity.

However, there was no way Eddie would have the strength to admit himself to Stan. He was so ashamed, he hadn't even told Bill what he'd done. Maybe he would have to soon, though, because the silence between Richie and Eddie was only becoming more noticeable the more time crept on. "I, um," Eddie stammered. He shook his head. "It's nothing."

"If it were nothing, you guys wouldn't be ignoring each other."

 _Dammit, Stan. Quit being so smart._ "Just— leave it, okay?" Eddie ran his thumb over the rock in his hands. "Let us work it out ourselves. It'll be fine." He reared back and threw another rock. It hit the water and sunk, not even skipping once.

"Doesn't look like that'll happen anytime soon," Stan mused, skipping another rock. Eddie stared as it made it all the way across the river, landing in the grass on the other side. He shifted his gaze to Stan, shooting him a glare. "I'm just saying," the boy defended. "It looked like you could use a little help."

Eddie sighed, defeated. "Yeah." Stan was right. He _did_ need help. But he didn't know any way to go about asking for it, and he was already so used to pushing people away when they tried to pitch in, because Eddie liked to do things his way. "Thanks. But I can’t." _I can’t tell you._

While he appreciated the gesture, Eddie didn't really want to skip rocks at all anymore— not, at least, while Stan was here to try to coax him into speaking to Richie. He retreated, taking a few steps towards the path that would take him to everyone else and away from the truth. He'd never been one to run from his mistakes, but here, it was different. With Richie, making a mistake was like stepping on a land mine.

"Wait," called Stan, ruining Eddie’s plans of escape and catching up to him in only a few quick strides. Eddie envied his long legs. Richie liked tall people, didn't he? He always said how pretty he thought tall girls were, ogling the ladies featured in the Playboy magazines he stole from the corner shop. Eddie let out a heavy sigh, turning around to face Stan. 

"What?"

"There's something he needs to tell you." Stan shifted his weight from foot to foot uneasily, looking like he didn't want to say too much but also like he had too much to say anyway. "And I thought he was going to do it soon, but he still hasn't yet."

Eddie licked his chapped lips, tempted to try and find a tube of ChapStick in his fanny pack. He didn't move, though, too invested in the conversation to interrupt. His heart pounded quickly in his chest, and his honey brown eyes found Stan's grayish blue ones. "What are you talking about?" If it was what he was thinking... Well, he couldn't trust it unless it came from Richie's own two lips, but even so...

"I can’t tell you everything, but I was just going to—"

Not too far away, Eddie caught the telltale sound of a car's engine interrupting them. His and Stan's heads both whipped around. _What the fuck?_ What was a car doing in the Barrens? Then Henry Bowers laughed, and Eddie knew exactly what that car was doing in the Barrens.

"We need to go," Stan hissed, grabbing Eddie by the arm.

"But you didn't—" The engine of Henry's beat-up car revved again, interrupting Eddie's protests. Were they really going to interrupt the only chance Eddie had to figure out what the fuck was going on with Richie?

"They'll be here any minute, come on!" Stan urged, pulling him into a jog, and Eddie realized glumly that yes, they were going to do exactly that. He heard shouts and whoops of joy from the right, and fear grabbed him by the throat.

"We didn't grab any rocks," Eddie wheezed, his body trying to convince himself to use his inhaler. He didn't pull it out. Instead, he held tightly to Stanley's arm, running as fast as his little legs could carry him. "We're fucked if they come after us."

"Not if we're faster," Stan panted.

"We're on _foot!"_ Eddie exclaimed. "Have you _seen_ how fast Henry Bowers drives his car?!"

"We'll figure something out!"

Eddie could finally hear the voices of the other three Losers with them drifting their way, though they were almost drowned out by the roaring engine. "Holy shit, holy shit, holy _shit,"_ he fretted. The damned thing sounded like it was on top of them. Bowers and his gang couldn't be far behind now. It felt like it was taking them a million years to reach the Losers, like they were running through sludge or getting sucked in by quicksand.

Finally, finally, they burst into the clearing. Eddie let his hand slip from around Stanley's arm, not slowing down for a second as he ran towards the group.

"E-Eddie," Bill started, confused, "wh-what's go-going—"

Eddie didn't let Stuttering Bill finish, putting everything he had into running as hard as he could. "Come on," he shouted, and though his legs were already starting to burn, the rest of him was perfectly fine. He heard the other three getting to their feet and starting to run.

"Did anyone bring a bike?" Stan called.

"I did," Ben said. "Should I—"

"Use it," Eddie yelled back, beckoning everyone forward. "Come on, come _on—"_ He glanced over his shoulder and there were the headlights of Henry Bowers' stupid fucking car. "Let's go! We gotta get the hell out of here!"

Eddie didn't wait for everyone to catch up with him, knowing he could run at his own pace and nobody would have a thing to say about it because he was running from Henry Bowers and everyone understood how dangerous a game that was. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly for a few seconds, trying to convince himself that it wasn't just the coward in him that was making him run faster.

But he couldn't deny it. That was exactly what it was.

Eddie sped out of the Barrens, emerging out onto the sidewalk. He made a sharp turn and didn't stop when his ankle popped in a sort of weird way. His feet carried him onward, items in store windows just a colorful blurry mess as he sprinted past. He could hear everyone else behind him, but they weren't as fast. Eddie wasn't just running— he was flying.

He didn't slow down until he heard the warning honk and shout of Henry Bowers. He swiveled around and gasped, watching the Bowers boy's car fly out of the Barrens and make a narrow turn onto the street, just barely missing Ben and his bike. They managed to avoid hitting anything, and then the car was approaching. Fast.

They weren't going to make it.

Eddie turned back around and took off again, everything fading from his ears. He was fairly sure the car had stopped, but now was no time to risk checking. He could find that out for himself once he was safely in Bill's house, peeking out of one of the Denbroughs' front windows.

Eddie ran and ran, feeling like he'd never get there. All he had to do was make it to Bill's house. He could do it. It couldn't be much farther away now. He'd been running for plenty of minutes, so fast that he couldn't even hear the rest of the group. Maybe he'd left them in the dust. He was going to do it! He was so fast, he was going to get away!

He could see Bill's house in the distance, watching as Ben and Mike— who was, remarkably, running as fast as Ben's bike— both passed him on the other side of the street. Stan and Bill couldn't have been far behind. They were going to make it home safe for the first time in ages! Eddie's mom was wrong. He was fast. He _could_ run. He was _so_ fast. Asthma couldn't stop him now, whether it was real or fake.

Eddie was fast, but not fast enough.

A hand wrapped in the back of his shirt before he could cross the street and run the rest of the way to Bill's front door. Eddie screamed when he was yanked off of his feet, his route changing. The mystery person threw him into the nearest alley, and Eddie collided hard with the ground, a quiet _umph_ coming from his lips. That was going to hurt for days, he could tell.

His mind caught up with him, and terror took his body. He scrambled back on the ground, rolling over and scooting away from the offending man— Patrick Hockstetter, quite easily the most psychotic of the bunch. The kid always had a miniature can of hairspray and a lighter on him for making flamethrowers. Eddie gulped.

Was Hockstetter about to turn him into a nice grilled Eddie-kebab?

However, as Hockstetter advanced, Eddie could see that his hands were empty. "Wh-What do you want?!" he squeaked out, wide eyes locking on Patrick's face. A smudge of dirt was sitting on the bridge of his nose.

"Doesn't matter what I want, pipsqueak," Patrick laughed. He glanced to the side, grinning, and Eddie's eyes followed.

A rain barrel.

 _No, no, no, holy shit, no._ "Please, I didn't do anything," Eddie begged. "I didn't do anything to you. Please, just let me go, I won't cause trouble, _please,"_ he rambled hysterically, already near tears. Hockstetter's trademark may have been fire, but right now, he was about to use water to his advantage. Eddie didn't want to drown— _especially_ not while he still owed an apology to Richie. "I didn't _do_ anything," Eddie wailed again.

"You didn't _have_ to do anything." Patrick stepped closer, and Eddie's whole body stiffened. "Henry's right. It's fun to fuck with you bunch of girly boys," Hockstetter chuckled. Eddie moved back farther and farther until he hit a fence.

Dead end.

 _"Boo,"_ Hockstetter exclaimed, lunging forward slightly as if he were going to attack. The bully laughed at the way Eddie's hands came flying up to protect himself. "The fuck are you doing, shrimp? You think you'd stand a chance against me?"

Eddie could only whimper. He was going to die here. He was going to die alone, because Patrick Hockstetter was going to drown him in a rain barrel. And he'd never see the Losers again. He'd never see Richie again. Eddie sobbed once, his lips parting and his scraped hand coming up to cover his mouth.

"That's about enough of that," Hockstetter snarled, apparently deciding he was tired of waiting— and probably tired of hearing Eddie's whining, too. He stepped forward, much to Eddie's horror, and took him by the front of his shirt, pulling him to his feet. When Eddie began to thrash around, desperate to get out of his grip, Patrick snarled, "Hold still." When Eddie didn't listen even then, Hockstetter patted the side of his own thigh. "You want the pocket knife instead?"

Eddie held still.

"You know," Hockstetter said, "you're a fast little piece of shit, aren't you? Stupid fucking _rat,"_ he spat, shoving Eddie forward until his stomach pressed against the rim of the rain barrel. "You'd be good at racing, huh?" Eddie didn't answer, his eyes watering. The water smelled awful, and it looked even worse, bugs and leaves and dirt floating around inside. And Patrick was going to put his head in there. Eddie felt so nauseous that for a second he thought he was going to throw up. _Who in their right mind collects this shit?_

"Sure was a pain in the ass to track you down," Hockstetter snarled.

"Please," Eddie whimpered again, his very last attempt. It was unsuccessful.

"Shut the fuck up, you f—" Patrick took his head and dunked it under the water before Eddie could hear the rest. Even though he'd missed the end of the sentence, Eddie knew what would've come next. The word echoed around in his head, bouncing back and forth in his brain and taunting him as he struggled, yanking his shoulders this way and that.

Maybe he _deserved_ it.

 _Fuck._ Eddie may have deserved it, but his body wouldn't let him give up like his brain had. He kept fighting and wriggling, panicking more and more with each second he was deprived of air. Finally, Hockstetter yanked up on his hair, and Eddie could breathe again. He did, drawing in a long breath and starting to cough. Before he could finish and catch his breath, Hockstetter had him back under.

He coughed once and then screamed pointlessly into the water, realizing that he didn't have nearly as much oxygen stockpiled as he had had last time. Terror and panic took him over, causing him to try to inhale. It didn't work. He coughed, tried again, and only swallowed more water. His vision was growing dark around the edges.

Hockstetter lifted him up just before he passed out, and Eddie breathed in. Water poured down his face from his hair and dribbled out of his mouth as he coughed as much as he could, so hard he thought he might puke. "Please, please," he wheezed breathlessly, dizzy beyond belief, but that was all he could make himself say, too focused on being able to breathe to do anything else.

"You having fun?" Hockstetter sneered.

Eddie sobbed, shaking his head wildly. "Let me go, let me _go,"_ Eddie pleaded, his throat beginning to be scratched raw with all the yelling he was doing. When the taller boy pushed him relentlessly toward the water once more, Eddie screamed again and fought as hard as he could, stomping on Patrick's foot and throwing his elbow back into Patrick's ribs and doing all that was within his power to stop his head from going under again. He successfully stalled for at least fifteen seconds, flailing about and kicking his legs and breathing heavily.

Ultimately, though, it didn't work. Patrick lifted his knee, shoving it against Eddie's back and forcing him into the edge of the barrel again. The frail brunet yelped when Hockstetter grabbed his wrists, pinning them behind his back. "Please, no, please," he sobbed again, to no avail. _"Please,_ I just wanna go _home."_

"Guess you should've thought about that before you became a fruity boy."

"I'm _not!"_ Eddie screamed, but it was useless. His head was being pushed toward the water again. This time, however, he did manage to suck a breath in before he went under.

He pulled and tugged at his hands, but it was clear that wasn't going to work. His heart was beating wildly, and his body begged him to take in a breath, but he kept his lips clamped tightly shut, determined not to let himself suck in water again. He had to play it smart. Finally, he let himself go limp, his knees buckling and his arms going slack. He rested there, lungs burning, for another moment. Patrick's grip on his hair loosened.

Eddie took the chance. He brought a leg up and kicked it into Patrick's groin rapidly, hard enough to send the boy stumbling and groaning. Eddie did it again for good measure, and Patrick let go of him completely. The brunet yanked his head out of the barrel, panting and taking off down and out of the alley blindly. _Please don't let there be a car coming._ He could barely see, water still running down his face and into his eyes. He coughed, hearing the phlegm build up in his chest, and rapidly wiped dirty water out of his eyes, opening them just enough to sprint across the street. His feet thudded hard against the paved road and then the sidewalk. And then he was home free. Eddie flung Bill's door open, stumbling inside.

He threw himself at Richie.

"Whoa!" the taller boy exclaimed, knocked backwards from where he'd been sitting, cross-legged, next to Bev on the floor. Eddie clung to his frame, hands wrapping around Richie's shoulders. When he tried to speak, he found he couldn't. He was breathing too quickly, sucking in breaths greedily, and he could feel himself shivering against Richie's warm frame. _Please, please, never let that happen again._

"Holy shit, Eddie. Hey, hey, Eds, are— are you okay?" Richie questioned frantically.

"Eddie!" he heard Bev. He could recognize Ben's shaking voice across the room, and Mike consoling him, as he always did.

Eddie felt his hands on either side of his head, and he jerked back slightly. _It's just Richie. It's just Richie. He's not gonna hurt you, he cares about you._ When Richie tried again, his hands coming to either side of Eddie's head, the traumatized boy didn't fight it. Richie moved his head back to stare into his eyes. The taller boy looked beyond concerned, and a little more bewildered. "Jesus Christ. What happened? You're all wet, Eddie, what—?"

Eddie inhaled shakily. "Hockstetter," he wheezed. "In the alley. There was a rain barrel. I'm— I—" He coughed into his elbow again and then shook his head. That was as much as he could get out. Richie would understand. He let his head fall back down, clinging to Richie's body, and the taller boy obliged, his arms wrapping around the shivering brunet.

"Go, go, get in, shut the door," Eddie heard from behind him. "Get _inside,_ Bill!" Stan urged again. There were more footsteps, and then the front door slammed. Eddie's eyes remained closed, his forehead still pressed into Richie's shoulder. For a few seconds, there was silence, and then there were so many questions.

"Did you guys lead them right to Bill's house?!”

"Wh-Where the f-f-fuh-fuck _else_ were we su-supposed to g-go?"

"What the hell happened to Eddie?"

"I don't know, we got split up—"

"Someone lock the front door—"

"Eddie, are you okay?"

"We need to make sure—"

"Where's Mrs. Denbrough?"

"N-No, y-you _can't_ t-tell her! She'll tell everyone's p-p-parents, and E-Eddie will n-never b-b-buh-be able to hang out w-with us again!"

"Maybe he shouldn't, if shit like this is gonna happen!" Richie snapped, finally breaking the uncharacteristic silence he'd been sitting in. The room fell quiet.

Mike spoke next. "That's a decision he has to make for himself."

Eddie couldn't hide from the world anymore. Slowly, he lifted his head, turning to glare at everyone in the room. "Stop talking about me like I'm not right here."

"Eddie, thank god," Beverly murmured, her eyes wide and terrified. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I— I'm—" Eddie coughed. No, maybe he wasn't. "I don't know," he finally settled on, turning slightly against Richie's body and realizing he was basically in the boy's lap. However, Richie didn't let go. When Eddie turned around, adjusting his position so he could see everyone else, Richie still held on, his arms remaining wrapped around Eddie's torso. Maybe he was a little grateful for it. Richie always seemed to know exactly what he needed.

"What happened?" Ben asked from his spot on the couch, and all eyes were on Eddie again.

"Fucking Hockstetter," he muttered by way of explanation. "Tried to— to drown me, I guess. In a rain barrel in one of the alleys. He kept— he kept—" Eddie sucked in a breath, each new lungful of oxygen tasting so sweet that he was sure he'd never take it for granted again.

"Take your time," Richie mumbled into his hair. Eddie felt butterflies stir in the pit of his stomach, and he waited until the heat in his cheeks was a bigger problem than the tears threatening to escape.

"He kept putting my head under. He got me when I was almost here." Eddie wiped his teary eyes on his shoulder, suddenly feeling too small for this world. "I think he would've killed me if I didn't get away," Eddie finished in a voice as small as him. Richie's grip on his body tightened. Eddie didn't complain, leaning back into his chest.

"D-Do you need anything?" Bill asked kindly. "You can use th-the old room upstairs if y-you want t-to lay d-d-duh-down." _The old room upstairs._ Bill meant Georgie's room. Eddie would feel a little awkward taking a nap there.

"I don't..." Eddie stopped and then trailed off. He was beginning to realize just how exhausted the whole ordeal had actually made him, and while he didn't often like accepting help, Bill offering was not the same as his mother offering. He needed to get over his fear of other people worrying for him. _Not everyone is like Mom._ "Um, yeah, actually," he forced out. _This'll be good for you._ "Can I?"

"I'll help you upstairs," Richie volunteered before Bill could get another word in. Everyone knew Big Bill would've said _'yes, absolutely'_ anyway. The raven-haired boy helped him stand, pulling him up by his arms. "You don't need me to carry you like the good old days, huh, Eds?" he cracked, a smile making its way onto his face. For a few seconds, things weren't awkward, and Eddie grinned back.

Then he remembered everything that was going on, and his smile faded. He glanced briefly to Stan, who just nodded once. But he didn't have all the strength Stan seemed to think he did. After all, he had just left everyone in the dust running from Bowers' crew. Maybe it was karma, him being the only one who'd ended up getting caught.

"I-I'm good," he answered, face flaming. Even so, Richie followed behind as he ascended the stairs, a hand hovering over the small of Eddie's back. Every time the smaller boy hesitated, Richie's hand brushed against him. Once, Eddie did it on purpose, just to experience the wonderful feeling of Richie’s hand against his back. Then he felt guilty for taking advantage of his help and climbed the rest of the stairs twice as fast, though the way his ankle ached made him rely more on the railing than he should've.

"Whoa, look at you go," Richie commented. "Looks like we've got ourselves a regular old Speedy Gonzales over here."

"Beep beep," Eddie said softly, but he didn't mean it, and the lack of gravity was reflected in his voice. Richie was clearly trying to let things go back to normal. Eddie didn't know how long he could play along without losing his mind. "Um, are you okay?"

"Are you kidding? I should be asking you that." Richie shook his head. "You're always worried about me."

"Sorry." Eddie shrunk back, using the wall for leverage as he limped down the hallway.

Richie extended his arm. "You know Mr. Denbrough hates it when people touch the paint job. Remember?"

Eddie debated it for a second and then gave in, moving instead to Richie's side and using his arm for support. They made it the rest of the way down the hallway, Richie opened the door for him even though Eddie insisted he could do it himself, and then Eddie made a beeline for the bed, ditching Richie. He flopped down onto the duvet, collapsing onto the small bed and yawning.

"You want me to leave the lights off, right?" Richie asked. If Eddie didn't know better, he'd think the guy was stalling.

"Yes, please," Eddie chirped quietly, finally slipping his shoes off and sneaking his legs under the thick, warm covers. "Um, also... can you wake me up before five?"

"Before five?" Richie was only confused for a second. "Oh, right. Mrs. K's Extreme Curfew of Doom." He sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah. Don't worry, I can do that."

"Thanks." Eddie mustered up a half smile, and Richie shot him a genuine grin that made his heart flutter. The taller boy lingered by the door, and Eddie bit his lip, remembering what Stan's suggestion had been before the Bowers fiasco: talk to Richie. _Now or never._ He took a breath. They spoke at the same time.

"You know, Rich—"

"Hey, I—"

Eddie paused, frozen. How could he have chosen to say something at the exact moment Richie had tried to speak? "S-Sorry," he spluttered with wide eyes, "go ahead."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, one hundred percent."

"I was just gonna say—" Richie paused, fidgeting with his shirt. The suspension was killing Eddie slowly. If he had to wait any longer to figure out what the hell was happening, he was pretty sure he'd scream.

"Yeah?"

"Well, um." Richie rubbed the back of his neck. "I think..." He hesitated again, searching for the right words to say, and Eddie clenched his jaw nervously, a bad habit of his.

_Come on, Richie, hurry it up._

Richie straightened his spine and hurried it up as if he were a mind reader. Finally, he met Eddie's eyes and finished, "We need to talk."

And with those four fateful words, Eddie was wide awake again.


	19. Richie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie and Eddie really, REALLY need to talk. Coincidentally, so do Stan and Richie. Lots of vocal chords are exercised, important things are discussed, and by the end of it all, Richie is tired enough to sleep for ten days straight (or gay, actually).

"Um, yeah. We can talk." Eddie sat up in Georgie Denbrough's bed, angling his body to face the door and in effect also facing Richie.

Richie gulped.

It was finally time. The raven-haired boy fidgeted with his own fingers, twiddling his thumbs. He'd been worried about this very moment all day. He hadn't been able to let himself look at Eddie, much less _talk_ to him, convinced that the shorter boy was furious at him and didn't want to see him. Who wouldn't be, after the episode in Eddie's bedroom a few days prior? It had been _three days_ since they'd spoken, after all. That was a long time for them to have gone without at least calling each other. However, not a single word had passed between the two boys since the day in Eddie's room with the GameBoy, except for maybe a general hello to everyone in the room.

It was agonizing, forcing himself to ignore Eddie, and he wasn't sure how he'd done it. There had been dozens of times where he'd been so tempted to let a dirty joke come rolling off his tongue, but he'd had to hold it back. When everyone else had suggested going out for a walk, a quick stop in the Barrens for fresh air, Richie had expressed his reluctance to Beverly, who had agreed to hang back with him.

The whole time, he'd ranted to her, draped across her lap like always and groaning about how stupid, stupid, _stupid_ he was. How could he have pushed so hard for Eddie to tell the truth? Richie didn't even know for sure if Eddie had said anything, but he'd still had the audacity to try and force him to admitting it. _Wow. I guess I truly am a shitbag._ Unfortunately, complaining to Beverly didn't fix his problem, and she'd given him a particular idea that he'd taken a second to think on: what if he reached out first?

He had been terrified, but then Eddie had run to him, holding tight to his body as if he were the only one in the room. And yeah, that had boosted his confidence a little, giving him the idea that maybe Eddie didn't hate him as much as Richie had assumed he would after the whole fiasco.

So he'd gotten bold and asked to talk to Eddie, and now he was going to have to figure out what the fuck to begin with. Eddie was staring at him, waiting for him to say something, but Richie was panicking, barely able to keep his thoughts in order enough to gently close the door behind him. He pushed it carefully against the frame and then let go of the handle, turning back around and leaning on it. "Uhh." _Wow. A master linguist._ Why did he have to start every sentence with _'uhh'?_ This really wasn’t helpful for his case. “Well, you know. I was just..." He shrugged, his gaze sliding off to the side. How could he start?

"Uh huh," Eddie commented, but where Richie expected him to poke fun, his voice was free of judgement. He understood.

Richie swallowed hard, crossing one of his legs over the other and leaning his head back until it touched the door. He stared at the ceiling, hoping the blank space would give him more of an empty mind for him to pick and choose thoughts wisely, because staring at _Eddie_ certainly wasn't helping. "I just wanted to ask about, uh." He seriously had no idea how to effectively pull this off. Eddie was sitting across the room, waiting patiently for his head to hit the pillow, and there Richie stood, fumbling with his words and letting seconds drip down the drain— wasting time like there was no tomorrow. His brain was a mess of scribbles and crunched up paper, and the words got all stopped up before they could reach his mouth, leaving him a flustered mess with pink cheeks and a quickly beating heart. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t know how to.

He panicked.

“Actually," he muttered, uncharacteristically solemn, "forget I said anything. Uh, have a good nap, okay?" Richie turned around quickly, shamefully, his hand wrapping around the handle of the door. _I gotta get the hell out of here before I embarrass myself any more._

"Wait!"

Richie did wait; much to his dismay, Eddie’s word was law in his mind, so his body didn’t want to move. He paused, glancing over his shoulder and then turning back around to face Eddie. His hand fell from the doorknob, tucking under his arm instead as he folded his arms across his chest. "Um.” _It it just me, or is it roasting in here?_ He felt like he was sweating buckets. "Yeah?"

"You can't get away _that_ easily." Eddie sat up fully, his honey-colored eyes attacking Richie silently. Richie couldn’t stand up to them, cowering against the door instead. "We _do_ need to talk, you know,” Eddie said, further provoking the shame that had been eating away at Richie for three days now. Three whole days! It had been a miracle Richie had survived.

"Well," Richie said dumbly. "I... yeah. I guess we do."

"So," said Eddie.

"So."

"About, um... the thing." Eddie was being vague, but Richie knew what he meant anyway. The brunet boy patted the spot beside him, and Richie, feeling his insides tingle with anticipation, obliged, stepping forward to sit down tentatively on top of the fluffy blankets.

"Yeah?" he replied, turning to face Eddie. God, it was so awkward. He just wanted to go back to the living room and sit on his growing mess of painful feelings until it disappeared. That would be so much easier than what was about to happen.

Then Eddie moved closer, so they could sit side by side, and stammered out, "U-Um, I didn't mean to kick you out," and Richie's mind changed instantly. "I mean, I got a little scared. But I never... I never actually wanted you to leave."

Richie swallowed hard. Eddie was going to make him cry if he wasn't careful. Relief flooded his body, but he wrung his hands anyway, still nervous beyond belief. Just because he was beyond step one didn't mean he was going to get off scot-free. "Oh. Well... I mean." It was so hard to be serious. Richie wished he could pepper in a mom joke. "I didn't know. I guess I just thought I should leave. I was being a dick. I shouldn't have... done what I did. Uh...” What next? _An apology, shit, I’m a fucking dickhead._ “A-And I'm sorry."

Eddie shook his head. "You don't have to be." He leaned against Richie's side, prompting the raven-haired kid to lift an arm and wrap it around Eddie. It was automatic, and he regretted it once he’d done it, unsure of where Eddie stood. But the smaller brunet didn’t move away. "It was my fault, anyway,” he said in his small voice (it was almost odd to hear it tranquil when usually he was so worked up about something or other). A yawn followed, and Richie sighed. He needed to wrap things up so Eddie could sleep.

However, Richie realized something very important that stopped him in his plans. “Your fault?" Did that mean Eddie _had_ said something? Richie opened his mouth to continue, and then he remembered that running his mouth, pressing for answers, was what had gotten him into the mess in the first place. Quickly, he clamped his lips shut.

"Yeah," Eddie sighed, followed by a yawn. "I mean, if I hadn't made that _stupid_ joke..." He trailed off, and Richie's pulse skyrocketed. Eddie had said something. He'd been right all along.

Richie couldn't make a big deal of it. It had just been a joke, anyway. Even so... His pulse was on the rise, his cheeks slightly heated. _Oh, god, I hope my palms aren’t sweaty._ He decided not to look too much into it, switching topics instead so he didn't say something he'd regret later. The knowledge alone that Eddie had made the joke was satisfying enough that Richie could call it closure and move on. “Are you good, Eds? You know, after... today.”

Eddie hesitated, and for a second, Richie feared he’d cry again, but he sucked in a breath and didn’t. _There’s my brave little Spaghetti Man._ “Yeah." Eddie let his head fall against Richie's shoulder; in turn, Richie was ecstatic. "It was just fucking crazy, y'know? I was so fast, I didn't think... I didn't think I'd be the one that got caught."

"I know. It fucking sucks. I just want to go track them down and... I dunno, beat the hell out of them. Give them a taste of their own medicine." Richie shook his head, chuckling softly. "I'd get my ass handed to me, though."

Eddie grinned. "You would."

“I already _did!”_ Richie pointed out. The only way that thinking about the recent attack on him wouldn’t bother him was if he joked about it. “They damn near delivered my heart to you on a silver platter. I would’ve been toast if you guys hadn’t shown up.”

“Yeah. But I’m glad you’re okay.”

“You were brave,” said Richie, quieter. “Thanks.”

“You know... You’re being weird today, Rich.” Eddie glanced briefly up at Richie and then back away, shaking his head slightly and leaving Richie a handful of questions that he couldn’t get the answers to.

"I’m weird _every_ day. What’s different about this day?” He jostled Eddie, but the grin on his face was petrified and frozen. _Please don’t do this to me._

“Yeah, but this is a _different_ weird. You’re actually being nice.”

“Well, that’s how you treat a best friend. And we’re best friends, right?”

Another hesitation. Richie couldn’t bear to look. Then, meekly, “Yeah. Of course.”

“Sheesh, Eds, way to give a man a scare.” Before he knew it, his hand was in Eddie's hair, threading through it over and over again. "It’s so unfair, what they do. Fucking Bowers. And nobody even helps us, either. It's just like a fucking slaughterhouse out there unless we're smart enough to get away." Eddie nodded again, and Richie, knowing he was tired, kept going, not forcing him to reply verbally. "I mean, seriously! Who do they think we are? Hulk Hogan and Eddie Guerrero?" Eddie laughed quietly, leaning more heavily on Richie's shoulder.

"Fat chance. I couldn't wrestle if I tried," he snorted. "I'm too fucking small."

"You are. Wouldn't want you getting hurt, or breaking any of your tiny little baby bones," Richie teased, and Eddie batted gently at him.

"Okay, I said small, not _ant-sized."_

"Oh, but you _are_ ant-sized, Eddie. You're fucking _tiny._ Have you seen yourself? Humans can't even see you properly without a magnifying glass." Eddie was laughing, so Richie went on like he always did. "No, a _microscope._ You're a little tiny bacteria—"

"Richie, that's _so_ gross," Eddie complained, but he was still laughing, and Richie considered that a huge win after the state he'd come back in.

"It's perfectly reasonable," the curly-haired boy argued. "You're a tiny little bacteria, and you eat bacteria chow, and then you swim around and make people freak out because they coughed one too many times over dinner."

"I accept my position as a bacteria," Eddie said seriously, giving his voice a deeper intonation. "I'll do my best to fuck up everyone's health and ruin their immune systems." Richie was astonished that Eddie was allowing him to joke about _diseases_ and _health._ He took the chance while he had it.

"And why do you think _you_ should get this job and not anyone else?"

"I should get the job because I fucking rock," said Eddie, still staying as serious as he could, "and everyone else sucks ass and they should all go home." Eddie hesitated and then started up again before Richie could get in another word. "And because—" he snorted, trying to maintain his composure— "I fucked your mom." He was trying so hard not to giggle, and so was Richie, and then they were both failing, falling all over each other and laughing so hard that tears sprang to their eyes. It was such a stupid thing to laugh about, being a bacteria and fucking someone’s bacteria mother. There was no _sense_ to it, and that was truly the beauty of it. Why was that so fucking funny? It didn't matter. Anything was funny with Eddie. Anything was better when Eddie was there.

"Well, sir," Richie said breathlessly, trying to avoid laughing again, "it looks like you've got the job. But you may have to fuck my mom _one_ more time for good measure."

"Oh, Richie, shut up," Eddie cackled, shaking his head. "God, I hate you so much."

"You don't. You love me," Richie teased.

"I do," Eddie replied, and though it was only casual, though it didn't mean anything, though it was still platonic, Richie felt fireworks go off inside his chest. Eddie loved him! He'd agreed, said it himself when Richie had prompted him.

Now all he had to do was figure out if Eddie was _in love_ with him.

Richie let out a breath, and they sat together in amicable silence for a few moments, holding each other steady like they always did. All Richie could focus on was the way Eddie put his head back down on his shoulder, and the way he breathed so quietly, as if he didn't want Richie to be bothered by him.

Richie wasn't, though. He never was. How could he be bothered by the one person he loved the most in the whole world? Eddie would never be a bother to him, Richie was sure of that, and he needed to find some way to tell him that. He'd need to think about it a little more. Doing it now, so randomly, so very _peculiarly—_ that would only be embarrassing. Richie needed something casual. He needed a gateway into it. Maybe he'd talk to Bev.

"Hey," he murmured quietly, after many minutes had passed. He didn't know quite how many; the ticking of the clock hung on the wall in the corner of the room was loud, and Richie knew it had been droning on for quite some time, but the room, with its lights off, was too dark for him to see the face clearly. "I think you should get some rest, Eds."

He didn't get a response, and at first, he panicked a bit, already assuming the worst and that maybe Eddie was mad at him again for some insane reason. Then, though, he leaned forward. He paused. He listened.

Eddie's breathing was slow. Steady and deep. The boy was asleep, his cheek still pressed against Richie's shoulder.

The taller boy smiled so hard he felt like his face would split in half. Eddie trusted him enough to fall asleep on him. Even though he'd done it before, countless times, Richie was still amazed every single time it happened. He'd never get over the euphoric feeling of knowing that Eddie put trust in him.

He shifted, moving the smaller boy back and pulling the covers up and over him. _Sleep well, Eds._ He could only hope that Eddie would rest better here than he did at home.

He got as far as the door before the little voice was calling him again. “Richie,” the small boy called timidly. “Um... are you gone yet?”

“No.” Richie let his hand fall from the door handle for the second time. “What’s up?” Eddie wanted to talk to him. Eddie wanted him to stay and talk longer. It wasn’t a big deal, but Richie’s heart beat wildly in his chest anyway.

“I know I asked you to wake me up later, but actually, um.” The room went silent again. Eddie’s breathing picked up a bit. “I just...”

“What’s wrong?” Richie took a few steps back toward the bed. “Are you okay?”

“No— I mean, yes, I’m fine, I just want you to—” Still, he didn’t finish. Richie was going mad.

“Eddie—” _Spit it out!_ But he wouldn’t rush the boy. Pressuring him to say something was what had caused problems in the first place. “Take your time,” he said instead, taking two more steps closer to the bed.

“Ijuswanytostay,” Eddie spat hurriedly, peeking out from under the covers with brown eyes the size of saucers, and were his cheeks red?

“Eds, you’re not making any sense.”

“I just— wanyt’stay!” Eddie rushed out again, and Richie chuckled softly.

“Spaghetti Head—”

“I just want you to stay.” Finally, a sentence that made sense. Only it didn’t, because Eddie wanted him to stay? How did that track?

“Oh! Well, why didn’t you say so?” Richie teased, feeling his dimple pop up when he grinned. He clambered back into the bed, though his heart rate was off the charts, and snuggled into the covers next to Eddie— not quite touching him, but feeling the heat he gave off. “This better?” There wasn’t much room in the twin-sized bed, and Richie was all too conscious of touching Eddie accidentally. He didn’t want the other to think he was weird.

“Umm... yeah,” Eddie murmured, sounding a little sheepish. “Thanks. Sorry. D’you think we should tell someone to—”

“Mike’ll know when to get us. He knows everything.” Richie was dying to inch closer to Eddie, but he stayed put. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“Okay,” Eddie said. “Then... goodnight.”

“Good afternoon, really.”

“Beep beep.” Eddie fell silent, and so did Richie, and the silence was painfully charged with electricity at first. Then, carefully, Richie’s hand slid over further on the bedsheets, and there it bumped Eddie’s. Slowly, slowly, they locked pinkies, then whole hands.

Eddie never pulled away, so there they napped.

—

"You need to talk to him."

"You're insane." Richie bounced a colorful rubber ball against the tile over and over again, perched upon the best stool (according to him) in the Uris kitchen. "He's mad at me."

"You just talked to him! He's clearly not mad at you!" Stan was baking again, this time without Richie's help. _The goal today is to make cookies, not to cover the kitchen in flour._ Richie had laughed, replied, _But there isn't any flour in cookies!_ and Stan had whacked him on the shoulder, reprimanding him— _Yes there is, you fucking idiot._

"Yeah, I _talked_ to him," he mumbled, watching the ball hit the floor. _Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._ "That doesn't mean he's not mad. And if I already talked to him, I shouldn’t need to do it again, Stan."

"You told me you apologized. You weren't _lying,_ were you?"

"Rude!" Richie sputtered. "Of course I wasn’t lying, I apologized! That's about as certain as when I apologized to your mom for missing our date," he finished indignantly, insistent upon covering it up with a thick layer of jokes that nobody would be able to see through.

"Oh, yeah?" Stan replied dubiously. Richie could practically feel him raising his eyebrow. "And does my mom know you're having an affair with Eddie Kaspbrak?"

Richie's cheeks went bright red. "Oh, you bold motherfucker," he grumbled, shaking his head. "That's a complete lie. You're just making shit up now."

"Not too far off from the truth, I'd say."

"I don't take flack from boys who bake cakes."

"I don't take anything from boys who spill flour all over my damn kitchen," Stan shot back, flicking his fingers in Richie's direction and creating a small cloud of flour dust. "There's a reason you're banned from baking."

"I'm a _great_ cook!"

"Cooking and baking are two different things," Stan scoffed. "Not that I'd expect you to know _that,_ seeing as you don't even know the difference between flower and flour."

"Oh, don't be pretentious." Richie hopped down onto the floor.

"How do _you_ know what pretentious means?"

"Shut the fuck up." Richie shoved him and then sighed. "Stan, you can't talk shit about me and Eddie."

"Eddie and I."

"What? No," Richie said, wrinkling his nose. "We're talking about _me_ and Eddie."

"You mean Eddie and I," Stan insisted, turning to him and raising an eyebrow. Richie was lost.

"Dude, you have nothing to do with—"

"No, what I mean is that you should be saying 'Eddie and I.' That's proper grammar."

Richie paused for a few seconds to digest this new information, finally understanding. "Oh, you asshole," he exclaimed, "leave me alone! Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted—"

"It was helpful, not rude."

"Shhh! As I was _saying,_ you can't go around talking about how me and— about how Eddie and I are, um. Are..." How could he say this without being weird? "You know. You can't joke about..."

"About you guys being in love?"

"Stan!" Richie's cheeks flushed red, and he buried his face in his hand. "I just _said—"_

"I heard what you said, and it's a load of bullshit." Stan scooped some batter out of the bowl and then tilted the spoon, letting it drip back down into the bowl. "Hmm. That needs more flour."

"Stan," groaned Richie, letting his hands fall to his sides, "I'm not _gay."_ He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. Denying himself so aggressively made him feel terrible, simply tore him up inside, but he couldn't have any more people than was absolutely necessary knowing about how he was. It wasn't that he thought the Losers would abandon him for it, but... well, yeah, that was what it was. He couldn't help but feel like Eddie would run the other direction and never look back if he ever found out that Richie was a _fruity boy._

"So what if you were?" Stan scooped a cup of flour from the ceramic jar, tilting it slightly to sprinkle it into the mixture.

"Listen, Stan, I'm _not,"_ he insisted. "I'm not like that, dude. You know how I am." He'd created a persona for himself— girls were hot, and that was it. Girls in boots, girls in skirts, girls in tight little tops that showed off their— _blech, girls._ But he couldn't tell Stan that _blech, girls_ was what he thought about the situation. He was stuck in a lie that wasn't even convincing to the people around him, much less himself.

"You know you can tell me anything." It was remarkable, really, that Stan hadn't even stopped moving. His hands were still going, scooping baking powder and pinching salt and flicking a little extra flour into the mix. "Be realistic, Richie. Who would I tell?"

"Your husband Billiam!"

"Shut up." Stan's cheeks flamed, and again, Richie felt bad for the joke that had just slipped out. "If you're allowed to do that—"

"Do what?"

"You know what you did. If you're allowed to make fun of me, I'm allowed to get you back." Stan grabbed his wooden spoon once again, stirring the cake batter thoroughly. "You're discreet, but not enough for me." Richie watched as Stan poured cake batter into the pan, smoothing it out with the spatula and then leaning forward to put it in the oven. "And it's not like I don't already know, anyway."

 _Fuck. Play dumb._ "Know what?" A little too dumb, maybe, but he could work with it. "There's nothing to know. You've been filled in on every news article coming from the Tozier Times. You're getting live updates from the man who writes them himself. If you just—"

"Richie." Stan's hands on his shoulders were a welcome presence, a comforting offer he didn't know he needed. His normally solemn eyes turned soft, and he inclined his head forward. "Are you okay?"

He felt like he could cry. "What are you goin' on about, pardner?" said Richie, putting on a southern voice to hide his problems. If he pretended like nothing was wrong, it would go away, and he wouldn’t have to worry about it. He’d never have to think about it ever again. "You 'n I both know 'bout everythang goin' on 'round—"

"Richie," said Stan again, and Richie was pretty sure a stray tear was rolling down his cheek. Stan didn't say anything else, just pulling him forward carefully into a hug, and it was just what Richie needed. He melted, burying his head in Stan's shoulder. He held back the tears, refusing to let them fall, but it was nice to hug Stan anyway.

"It doesn't change anything, Richie," Stan said quietly. "You know that, right?" Richie didn't answer at first, remaining silent, and Stan jostled him. "You know that?"

"I guess so," Richie murmured. "You're still gonna be my friend even though I'm a—?" He couldn't finish, choking on the word. It was a heavy weight on his shoulders and a ton of bricks in his throat, making it hard to function or even think without being reminded of it.

"Of course I am." Stan pulled back. "And I need to set the timer for the cake." Just like that, Richie was smiling again. Stan loved him for who he was. _Stan the Man... I knew I could count on him._

"Alright, Pillsbury Dough Boy, cook up that motherfuckin’ cake!”

“I’m going to bake it, not cook it, but nice try.”


End file.
